


Of Men and Memory

by Amster



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Depressed Steve Rogers, Explicit Sexual Content, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Lots of Angst, M/M, Multimedia, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, POV Steve Rogers, Panic Attacks, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, References to Torture, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-05-27 01:10:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6263581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amster/pseuds/Amster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year and a half after the attacks on the Triskelion and the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D., the world is still reeling in the wake of the tragedy. Steve Rogers is still reeling in the wake of discovering that the Winter Soldier is actually his former lover Bucky Barnes. But when Bucky returns to Steve, it's not the reunion Steve expected. Bucky barely remembers him, while Steve remembers everything. All Steve wants is to help Bucky, but he doesn't know if he can. All he can do is hope that Bucky will love him again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well here we are! This is going to be my first multi-chapter stucky fic! *cheers and applause* 
> 
> I've had this story in my head since July but I didn't actually start actively writing it until January. Originally it was only supposed to be about five chapters long... Well it's gonna be a lot longer than that. The story sort of took on a mind of it's own and I'm really excited to see where it ends up. I hope that everyone who reads this will be too! 
> 
> I'm hoping to update this fic once every two weeks on Sundays, except for Chapter 2, which I will post in one week. However, these next two months look like they're going to be pretty busy... so I guess we'll just have to see how things go. Also, since I'm not done writing yet, I'll add tags as they become applicable. I'm not entirely sure what this beast will contain yet, but probably graphic violence. I mean- look at who we're dealing with here. 
> 
> I'd like to thank the amazing [ghostlywhitedirewolf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostlywhitedirewolf/pseuds/ghostlywhitedirewolf) for beta'ing for me. These first few chapters sorely needed it and I'm sure others will too.

_Erasing a national tragedy: the Winter Soldier and the destruction of the Triskelion_

_\- Wallace Leery, The Washington Post_

 

Many citizens of Washington D.C. were outraged to hear the city’s newly announced plans to sell a piece of land along the Potomac to a financial holdings corporation. While this may not seem like breaking news, it’s what once stood on the property that makes this issue newsworthy. Upon this little chunk of land by the river used to stand The Triskelion, which, up until last year, served as the main S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters.

Most of us can recall exactly what we were doing the moment we heard the news that The Triskelion had been attacked. Most of us recall seeing the horrifying footage as three massive helicarriers plunged into the Potomac River, destroying The Triskelion as they descended. For many of us, it was a wake up call to remind us that terrorism is still a very real threat to this nation. Disregarding the questionable ethics which go into the government making deals with multi-billion dollar corporations, let’s look at the other moral implications of selling this bit of property.

It was just over a year ago that the Washington D.C. Massacre occurred. Pieces of helicarrier are still being craned out of the river. Wouldn’t you agree it’s a bit premature to do anything with the property, let alone sell it? The D.C. Massacre was the largest terrorist attack to be carried out on native soil in this decade. The country has barely had the time to process and mourn the 900 lives that were lost that day. How can the government justify the sale of the site of a national tragedy? That would be like sending a wrecking ball to destroy the Vietnam War memorial. The Triskelion should be preserved, not sold.

I get the sense that our government is pretty eager to sweep this whole incident under the rug. After all, the D.C. Massacre not only destroyed The Triskelion, but the intelligence apparatus of this nation. The massive S.H.I.E.L.D data leak has become the biggest topic of debate since Edward Snowden and the NSA leak and it has brought up some pretty tough questions. For instance, how could our government allow a Nazi war cult to infiltrate our premier intelligence organization? Or, how could said intelligence organization be unaware of the existence of a deadly human weapon, despite his over sixty confirmed kills?

There has been much speculation as to the identity of the Winter Soldier after the leaked S.H.I.E.L.D/Hydra files spilled onto the internet. Somehow, despite the overwhelming abundance of information, or possibly because of it, no one has been able to discover the true identity of the Winter Soldier. And honestly, does it matter? We know what he has done. The Winter Soldier was singlehandedly responsible for the assassinations of at least sixty scientists, diplomats, activists, engineers, and journalists in the past sixty years. We know that he set fire to an orphanage in Eastern Europe and slaughtered a refugee camp in Rwanda. He put national hero, Captain America, into the hospital. And we know he is a major reason as to why The Triskelion still isn’t standing tall today. Which begs the question, why isn’t this terrorist behind bars?

While our government is trying to pretend it had no hand in this tragedy by pawning off a piece of land still stained with the blood of American citizens, a war criminal is walking free. No wonder the citizens of D.C. are outraged. They are still mourning the lives of their loved ones. Selling the land upon which they died is unconscionable. Especially since the man (if one can even call him a man) responsible for all of their loved ones lives has not had to pay for his crimes against humanity.

We cannot allow this to stand. If there is to be justice, the Winter Soldier must stand trial. And may God have mercy on his soul. Because the jury certainly won’t.

 ***

 

“So is that it? I don’t have to ship any more of your junk from D.C.?”

 Steve was walking through the streets of New York, a brown package tucked under one arm and in his free hand he held his cellphone up to his ear.  This box represented a little bit of stability after his life had been uprooted yet again in the wake of the D.C. massacre.  It was the last of his belongings to be sent from his old apartment and finally, after more than a year, his transition to living in Avengers Tower full time was complete. Honestly, he’d been happy to get out of D.C. After the massacre, as they were calling it, happened, everyone seemed to want to hear from him. People wanted answers, an explanation, and a few even wanted to hold him culpable. But most everyone wanted to laud him for defending the nation against Hydra’s greatest weapon.  The Winter Soldier. Oh, the media had devoured the S.H.I.E.L.D and Hydra secrets that had been poured onto the Internet. It seemed like it was only a matter of hours before everything had been processed and at the very core of it all they had found him. Or rather just an idea of him. A human weapon with nearly a hundred confirmed kills. He seemed the perfect scapegoat, a convenient way for the government to explain its own failure. Everyone wanted to hear what Captain America had to say about him.  And Steve had nothing to say. So when Tony invited him to Avengers Tower, Steve had packed up immediately and headed straight for New York. The further away he could get from the wreckage in the Potomac, the better. But he had left most of his belongings behind in D.C.

 Steve smiled a bit at Sam’s jab, hiking the box up a bit as he navigated the bustling throngs of New Yorkers. “You know I appreciate all your help Sam. I owe you one.”

 “Nah. Just pay me back for postage and we’re cool. And maybe set me up on a date with one of the badass ladies you know.”  Steve snorted. “But really. You happy to be back in New York?”

 “It’s all right,” Steve replied as he turned the corner and Avengers Tower came into view.  The building was massive and imposing. Just as much of an eyesore as Stark Tower, but beautiful in what it stood for; Steve could admit that much. A symbol for teamwork as well as a message that the Earth was protected. Steve wasn’t so jaded that he couldn’t at least appreciate that.

 “Now don’t get too excited,” Sam quipped. “What? You’re not happy to be back home?”

 “Well Manhattan isn’t exactly home,” Steve pointed out. The sky was turning grey now as dusk approached, but the city lights were coming alive. Bright, stark neon lights glittered up the sides of buildings.  Sometimes it seemed like the city was decorated for Christmas year round. But instead of bringing cheer it did the opposite and made Christmas seem grimy and grey. D.C. had been the same way of course. Every city was like that now. In New York though, it just made Steve feel even more out of step with everyone. He could just barely sense the ghost of old Manhattan, buried under the layers of steel and glass and lights.

 “You could have gotten an apartment in Brooklyn.”

 Steve stopped walking for a moment. He looked down at the package tucked under his arm and sighed. “You know I can’t do that Sam.”

 “Yeah. I know you can’t.”

 The soldier began walking again, squeezing his box tightly under his arm. No. He couldn’t live in Brooklyn. Brooklyn was the only home he had ever known and now it didn’t even feel like that anymore. Whenever people asked him why he didn’t move back to his hometown, he usually said something about how different the city was now and how he couldn’t bear to stay there when everything had changed so much.

 But that wasn’t the truth. He had known it for a while. But it wasn’t until Wanda had given him that vision that he really figured it out. It wasn’t that Brooklyn was different; it was that he was. He had gone to war and never come back.

 A life, a home; those were things he just couldn’t have. Fighting was all that he knew. He couldn’t even imagine a life where he could settle down anymore. Everything he used to want froze in the ice. And when he’d come back up, it left him cold.

 “I did see the old neighborhood though,” Steve murmured after a moment.

 “Yeah?”

 “Half the tenements are gone. Apparently the one my mom and I used to live in have been gone for nearly forty years now. But the apartment I shared with Bucky is scheduled for demolition in a month.”

 “I’m sorry, Steve,” Sam replied. The great thing about Sam was how sincere he was. The only regret Steve had about leaving D.C. was leaving Sam behind. But the two of them had seen each other frequently as they chased cold leads and hunted down Hydra agents on their search for Bucky. Sam was probably the closest thing Steve had to family anymore, and he was the only person Steve could always talk to about himself though Steve didn’t really like to complain. Wallowing never helped a damn thing. But it was hard to carry on sometimes without a friend to lean on.

 “It’s just a building,” Steve said casually.

 He knew that Sam knew that he was full of shit. He could almost picture Sam’s incredulous face on the other side of the phone.

 Steve cleared his throat and continued on. “Well, glad you finally sent this last box. Now I can pack half my stuff up and ship it to the new base. Speaking of which, when are you moving up there?”

 “Just as soon as I cut all my girlfriends here loose.”

 Steve laughed. “Well, just let me know when you’re ready to start packing. I’ll fly out to help.”

 He arrived at the front entrance of Avengers Tower and placed his hand on the scanner. The bulletproof glass doors opened with a grand whoosh and a rush of air- the only way a door could open when Tony Stark designed a building.

 “I appreciate the offer, but I got it covered. Besides, you really don’t want to be back in D.C. Everyone here is still paranoid. I guess that’s what happens when you watch people fish bits of helicarrier out of the Potomac everyday. But it’s bad, Steve…  They’re out for blood…. The way they talk about him-”

 “I know,” Steve whispered.  “He doesn’t deserve a goddamn bit of it.”

 Steve made his way across the vacant lobby and to the elevator that led up to the living quarters on the upper floors of the building. “Alright Sam. I gotta go.”

 “Okay. Bye Steve; you take care of yourself.”

 The soldier chuckled bitterly. “I’ll try. Just can’t make any promises that Tony hasn’t made some sort of disaster machine up there in his lab. But I’ll try.”

 Steve hung up the phone and stepped into the elevator, sighing heavily and leaning against the back wall of the elevator as it zipped up to the upper stories of Avengers Tower, where all the living quarters were arranged. He ran his fingertips absently over the tape on the side of his box, trying not to think too much about the wreckage left behind in D.C. or the wreckage left behind in Sokovia, or the wreckage that was soon to be made of his old home. There seemed to be a lot of wreckage these days. He wasn’t sure if that was just entropy or if it was him.

 The elevator door opened and Steve stepped out onto his floor of Avengers Tower. They each got their own penthouse, which was nice. But it sure was a lot of space for one person to try to fill up. Steve shuffled through his apartment, lit only by the late evening light, to the kitchen area and set his box on the island. He stared at it for a long moment. Just looking at it left a gnawing hollow feeling in Steve’s chest.

 As he was staring at the box, Steve felt it. Something was off. Steve got the distinct impression that he wasn’t alone in the apartment. Immediately, Steve looked towards his shield, which was leaning on a bookcase across the living room. His apartment had a pretty open floor plan. From the kitchen island he could see straight across the living room to where his shield was. If there wasn’t furniture in the way, Steve could walk right to it. Steve glanced around quickly before stealthily making his way around the island and through the living room, hoping that he wouldn’t tip off the intruder that he was onto them, at least until he got his shield. Whoever was in here with him was highly skilled at breaking and entering, otherwise they would have triggered the alarm on Tony’s “infallible” security system.  Knowing that, Steve realized that the intruder was likely a spy or assassin. Someone highly trained. The fact that Steve hadn’t realized they were there immediately attested to that likelihood.

 Steve grabbed his shield and spun around, scanning his apartment for any sign of a threat.

 In the corner, a familiar silhouette sat in an armchair. Steve slowly lowered his shield.

 “Bucky?”

 “Yeah, Steve.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback. Steve and Bucky reunite. Steve Rogers has a lot of feelings. Things aren't at all like what they used to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold! The next installment. I hope you all find it to your satisfaction. 
> 
> Once again I'd like to thank the lovely [ghostlywhitedirewolf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostlywhitedirewolf/pseuds/ghostlywhitedirewolf) for beta'ing me.

_Steve dragged himself up the fire escape steps, thin arms trembling from exertion as he hauled the last box up to the new apartment. His fingertips dug into the bottom of the box- he didn’t want to drop this one.  It was stuffed with photo albums and old sketchbooks along with various other papers that would scatter to the winds if he dropped it._

_Finally, Steve reached the third floor and leaned in the already open window, easing the box down to rest on the scratched up wood panel floors. Going up the fire escape was a lot easier than going through the lobby where people hustled and bustled, conducting their business. Steve was exhausted from climbing stairs and moving boxes all day. But it was worth it for this._

_The skinny blonde climbed through the window into the cramped little tenement. It was long and narrow. There was hardly room for the few pieces of furniture inside it, but it was certainly better than trying to live with Bucky’s family. There hadn’t hardly been room to breathe, let alone move, and Steve didn’t exactly take up much space. The couch was shoved against the wall to the left of the window and a tall, thin bookshelf stood beside it. Across from the couch was a desk. Beyond that, through the interior windows that created a bit of separation, was the kitchen which featured a sink, a stove, a counter and a bathtub that doubled as a table when a plank of wood rested on it. Everywhere a box could be, there was. Even though unpacking hadn’t even begun and these rooms were hardly livable, Steve felt his heart swell. This would be his home._

_Just then, Bucky stepped through the door just beyond the kitchen and Steve smiled, his heart swelling for entirely different reasons now. No. This wouldn’t be his home. It would be theirs._

_After two years of sneaking around Bucky’s folks and little sisters while Steve was living with them, trying hide their affection, Bucky and Steve would finally have a place to share. Where they could be intimate any time they wanted to instead of having to wait until deep into the night when they had to be hushed and rushed for fear of waking somebody._

_“What’d we pack in these boxes? Bricks?” Steve grumbled as he stepped around packages and then flopped onto the couch. Bucky laughed and picked his way over to Steve, sitting down beside the blonde and throwing his arm around his bony shoulders- an easy, friendly gesture that sent sparks flying through Steve nonetheless. “I’m gonna be so sore. I’ll be lucky to get outta bed tomorrow, let alone go and deliver papers.”_

_“I don’t see a thing wrong with staying in bed all day,” Bucky replied slyly, his plump, round lips drawing up into a flirty smirk._

_Steve rolled his eyes, but leaned his head against Bucky’s shoulder nonetheless. “You’ve got no shame. We’ve been moved in for all of two minutes- we ain’t even unpacked the bed sheets and you’re already tryin’ to seduce me.”_

_“I’m always tryin’ to seduce you. I’m irresistibly seductive.”_

_“Don’t I know it,” Steve chuckled, tilting his head up to kiss Bucky’s slightly stubbly chin. But Bucky caught Steve’s face and bent down to kiss him properly. Their lips molded to each other’s, fitting together with familiar ease like two pieces of a puzzle. They kissed in perfect harmony, parting their lips and teasing with tongues. After a long moment they broke the kiss, and Steve looked up at Bucky’s shimmering blue eyes. An insistent ache was gnawing in his chest, despite his happiness. And from the sad look on Bucky’s face, Steve knew he was thinking the same thing that he was. As much as they wanted it to, this could never last._

_Steve pulled away went to rifle through one of the boxes sat on the desk._

_“What’re ya doin’, Stevie?” Bucky asked, leaning forward where he sat to see if he could get a look at the box Steve was unpacking. The little blonde didn’t respond, merely pulled out a box camera and turned back around to face Bucky, a big, goofy excited grin on his face. He looked like a puppy that had just been thrown a bone. Bucky laughed, tickled by how cute Steve was. “Okay, Rogers, where’d ya get that?”_

_“I bought it,” Steve replied, staring down at the camera and fiddling with it as he tried to figure out how it worked. “This way I can take pictures of the things I want to draw instead of tryin’ to draw them from memory.”_

_“And ya plan on taking a picture of the apartment in this state?” Bucky asked incredulously._

_“No. I’m plannin’ on takin’ a picture of you.” Steve held up the camera and focused it on Bucky. He was so handsome without even trying. Sitting casually on the couch, bright eyes twinkling, brown hair carelessly combed back, the sun streaming through the window to illuminate his strong yet elegant features. Once again, Steve’s heart felt as though it would fill to bursting. Even if what they had couldn’t last, Steve would be damned if he couldn’t at least try capture this moment. “Smile, Bucky. And ya better get used to this. I’ve got a empty photo album in that box by the window over there. And I’m gonna fill it with pictures of you.”_

***

Steve stared. He gaped at Bucky, not quite believing that it was true. He couldn’t quite believe that Bucky really was there, folded into Steve’s plush leather armchair like he belonged in it. Like he had never been gone.

But here he was.

After months upon months of scouring the globe, scrounging through old data files, and chasing cold leads in search of Bucky, Bucky was just sitting in Steve’s apartment, staring back at Steve with his unyielding blue gaze.

Bucky was a bit worse for the wear from the last time Steve had seen him.  On the bridge and on the helicarrier, Bucky had been an unstoppable force- his body lined with powerful muscle, his long brown hair wind-whipped and wild, and his left arm polished and glinting like a knife blade. But now his face was gaunt and haunted and his clothes hung too loose on his frame. His brutal metal arm was hidden by his navy blue hoodie, and Steve could only see the hand, dingy and grey, peaking out through the sleeve.  He was almost a different man now. Even the eyes, which were still as blue as they ever were, seemed changed. Where the Soldier’s eyes had been a dead and flat, these eyes were a mirror- reflecting the world back without letting anyone see past the glass itself. But there was no mistaking it. This was his Bucky.

A powerful wave of relief swept over Steve, washing away all the tension and the fears he kept bottled up inside him. God, Steve couldn’t remember the last time he had been this happy.  Bucky was safe and he was whole. An answered prayer sitting right before Steve, who was so overwhelmed he couldn’t even think of what to say.

 Finally, he choked out, “You’re okay.”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth turned up ever so slightly and he nodded slowly. Joyous, relieved  laughter bubbled up from deep within Steve as the big blonde tossed his shield to the ground and strode across the room. He dropped down onto his knees before Bucky and threw his arms around Bucky’s waist, folding Bucky into a tight embrace. His head rested on Bucky’s chest like it used to when he was small and he would listen to the steady thrum of Bucky’s heart. All of Steve’s body was alive and humming, awaked by the familiar touch. Tears were brimming in his eyes, but hell, what did he care? Bucky was in his arms and just for this moment everything was alright.

 After a long moment Steve pulled away, sitting back on his heels and wiping away the unshed tears. He looked up at Bucky with a soft smile, which soon vanished when Steve saw the tight, pinched look on Bucky’s face.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked. His heart was feeling suddenly tight.

Bucky shook his head, glancing at Steve and then down to the floor.

 “I’m sorry,” he murmured, getting out of the chair and crossing over to the far window, away from Steve.

Steve was left stranded, still kneeling on the carpet in front of the armchair.

It felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. God, he knew he had no reason to feel this way- abandoned or whatever it was he was feeling. But… Bucky remembered him. He must have remembered him. Why else would he be in Steve’s apartment? Why else would he have said Steve’s name? And if Bucky remembered him, why would he pull away?

Steve quickly collected himself, standing up and turning around to face Bucky, but keeping his distance this time. Maybe Steve wasn’t the most brilliant man on the planet, but he knew enough to take a hint. “What are you doing here, Buck?” Steve asked quietly, sliding his hands into his pockets.

Bucky turned back around to face him again. Steve couldn’t quite read his expression, but something about him seemed desperate.  His eyes bore down on Steve without faltering as if he could find whatever he was looking for in Steve.

Finally Bucky spoke.

 “I need to remember. “

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the concept art for Steve's apartment that I took my inspiration from for Steve and Bucky's apartment: 
> 
>    
> Thanks for reading! The next update will be in two weeks. 
> 
> Please comment. I live and breathe your praise; I learn and grow from your criticism. 
> 
> Pester me on tumblr if you want! I'm suddenly-sherlock


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve battles with insomnia. Natasha offers some perspective. Nostalgia is a bitch. Steve got beat up seventy years ago. Bucky has a nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back for you next installment of Of Men and Memory, starring Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, and a whole lot of angst. 
> 
> Just as a warning, this chapter to contains references to violence and descriptions of the aftermath of said violence. Also Bucky has a night terror. Nothing too terrible yet. But if any of that makes you uncomfortable, then I have given you fair warning. 
> 
> As always, I'd like to thank the wonderful [ghostlywhitedirewolf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostlywhitedirewolf/pseuds/ghostlywhitedirewolf) for beta'ing for me! She has been an immense help.

The ceiling gaped at Steve, meeting his gaze like a vast, black yawning mouth. With a sigh he turned over on his side to face the glowing red of the digital clock on the nightstand. 3:03…. 3:04… 3:05.  Minutes seemed to inch by at a snail’s pace. Ironic, considering how much he felt like time had passed him by. But nights were always like this: just Steve, sinking deeper into the pillowy marshmallow of his bed, unable to sleep despite his best efforts.

And the unspeakable heartache that he felt was only worsened by the knowledge that Bucky was in the room right next door rather than in bed with him.

Two weeks ago, the night Bucky appeared in his apartment, Steve had knocked on Natasha’s bedroom door just after midnight. She was the master of disappearing and that was exactly what Steve needed to do. He and Bucky couldn’t stay in Avenger’s Tower. God only knew what Tony would do if he found out that Steve was harboring the man that killed his parents. Besides, Steve wasn’t very inclined to trust Tony with anything at the moment. Not after everything that happened with Ultron.

And Natasha… Well Natasha had figured out the nature of Steve’s relationship with Bucky in an instant. So, of all people she would understand.

The two of them sat on the foot of her bed, Steve hunched over and trembling like he was in shock. Maybe he was. So many emotions were tumbling through him that he was left reeling, searching desperately for something to grab onto.

“So he doesn’t remember anything?” Natasha asked, her voice was low and gentle and concern was written all over her face.

“Bits and pieces, he says. Some of it from the old days, some of it from Hydra. But not much more than that,” Steve explained.

“And how are we feeling about that?” Natasha shifted on the bed, crossing her legs and facing Steve completely. Steve looked back at Natasha, who regarded his sad eyes wordlessly.

“I don’t know.“

Steve paused, trying to collect the words to piece together a sentence that would explain his emotions, but he couldn’t find them.  So Steve merely bowed his head and looked down at the floor.

Natasha broke the silence.  “What they did to him Steve- it can’t be easily undone.”

Her voice was terribly quiet and her eyes had taken on a glassy, haunted quality. Steve’s heart broke just a little bit more for her. Natasha didn’t talk much about her past. But Steve had learned a bit about the horrors of the Red Room when Natasha had been dragged into the middle of the House Committee investigation of the S.H.I.E.L.D data leak. They dredged up things that should have been left buried. As if the past was a weapon they could exploit.

She hadn’t even blinked, though, as words were flung at her like knives. Steve never would have been able to do that. He’d break.

“I know… I know that,” Steve agreed.

But Natasha turned to face him once again, but her gaze was piercing and intense. “It’s called programming for a reason, Steve. They literally program your behaviors the way you can program a computer. It’s not something you can just snap out of. It takes an incredible amount of strength. The fact that he remembers anything at all is a miracle.”

She was right; she always was. Steve let out a little sigh and smiled a bit, reassured.  Truly, it was a miracle. Most nights since that fateful day at The Triskelion, Steve had prayed that he would find Bucky safe and sound.  Now that his prayer had been answered, he had no right to feel forlorn. Perhaps Bucky didn’t remember; that wouldn’t change how much Steve loved him.

But a nagging fear in the corner of his mind reminded Steve that without any memory of their past, Bucky might not love him back anymore.

Shoving the thought aside, Steve focused on the positive, latching onto Natasha’s words to give him some perspective.

“You just have to be patient,” Natasha concluded.

Then Natasha gave Steve the address of an apartment in Brooklyn where he could disappear with Bucky for a while.  He would still be close enough to Avenger’s Tower to come quickly if he was called and he and Bucky would easily be able to hide in plain sight since they would still be in a city of millions.  Natasha assured him that she would come up with a cover story to explain his absence and hurried him on his way.

“Just go. And be careful, Steve.”

With that, Steve packed a bag. Before they left, Steve made sure his package from D.C. was tucked safely into his closet where nobody would find and open it. Not that he thought anyone in Avenger’s Tower would, but Steve just wanted to make sure. Then Steve and Bucky stole away, taking a very early train to Brooklyn. They arrived at the apartment at just after three in the morning and had been there ever since.

The apartment was small and dingy, located in one of Brooklyn’s poorer neighborhoods- a part of town where no one would come to look for you because no one wanted to venture there. Despite this, the apartment wasn’t really that bad. In fact it was a lot like the tenement Steve and Bucky used to live in, only with better ventilation, a bit more space and a bathroom they didn’t have to share with everyone on the floor.

Everything about the situation was achingly familiar, but tangibly different. The bitter irony of it wasn’t lost on Steve. Finally, he had the thing he wished for; he was once again living in an apartment in Brooklyn with Bucky.  But nothing was as it should be.

Bucky moved about the apartment like a ghost- haunting it rather than living in it. He rarely ate and even more rarely chose to start a conversation. They were supposed to come here so that Steve could help Bucky remember his old life in safety and privacy. But Bucky never brought up the past. Mostly he just floated about from room to room or he sat still and silent for hours on end.

Steve did his best not to push him and to be patient like Natasha had said. Once he was ready, Bucky would talk.  

But it was so hard.

Looking out of the window in their kitchen onto the grimy streets, Steve could see the shadow of a world that used to be. Not a perfect world. Not even a good world. Nonetheless, that world was his home. Now the Brooklyn of his childhood only existed in his memory, and Steve carried the weight of that burden alone.

Steve never felt the gravity of memory more intensely than when he was with Bucky. Every second of their time together was etched into stone in his mind, and whenever Steve looked at Bucky he still saw the man Bucky used to be. The man who jumped into fights to save him, who always helped his ma carry groceries, who would braid each of his little sisters’ hair before they fell asleep. The man who could outshine the stars when he smiled, who used to hold Steve when he cried, and who taught Steve how to kiss.

Steve’s body still knew Bucky’s and reacted to their closeness as if not a day had passed since 1942. It hummed to life any time Bucky drew near, aching for contact. All Steve wanted was to take Bucky in his arms, to hold him and kiss him until the nightmares had passed. Bucky had done the same for him so many times when he had been sick or injured. Now that it was time for Steve to take care of Bucky, he was afraid to get too close. He didn’t want his affection to be misconstrued and he certainly didn’t want to drive Bucky away. Not after he’d just gotten him back.

The hardest thing, though, was that sometimes, when Steve called Bucky’s name, the other man would turn around and his eyes would just be blank. No recognition. Bucky stared at Steve like he was a stranger- the same way he had when they met on the bridge in D.C. It was all Steve could do not to break down. Those same eyes used to be filled with so much life and so much love. Now Steve wondered if Bucky would ever know him, nevermind love him again.

If there had been a way for Steve to take all of Bucky’s pain away, he would have done it in a heartbeat. During the long idle days holed up in their claustrophobic apartment, Steve spent a lot of time rewriting the past in his head. Occasionally, Steve took the fall instead of Bucky, crashing down into the ice and drifts of snow at the bottom of that ravine. Or he managed to find Bucky before Hydra got to him.  Usually he saved Bucky, dragging him back onto the train and they clung to each other, scared but giddy from brushing up so close against death. It was all just fantasy though; something to distract him from Bucky’s vacant gaze.

He knew all too well that there is no changing the past. There is only continuing to move forward.

3:58.

Steve turned over onto his back again, staring up at the ceiling as it gazed back at him with the same vast emptiness he saw in Bucky’s eyes.

_***_

_“Goddammit, Steve!”_

_A pair of big, solid hands grabbed Steve by the shoulders and hauled him off the pavement. The world was tilting wildly on its axis, making Steve feel dizzy and sick. He nearly tumbled back onto the ground, but Bucky caught him and held him up._

_“I’m fine, Buck,” Steve grumbled, mostly out of habit, though he was decidedly not fine. Blood was pouring out of a cut on his forehead, obscuring his vision as it ran into his eyes. Something had happened to his ribs too. Now, any time he breathed in, a sharp pain shot through his chest. On top of that Steve was covered in scrapes and bright red marks that were already fading into ugly bruises. But at least the world was coming back into focus, so he probably wasn’t concussed._

_Steve shrugged out of Bucky’s grip, staggering out of his reach as he wiped the blood out of his eyes with the back of his hand. Then he wheeled around to face Bucky, standing defiantly in the middle of the mostly abandoned parking lot. His skin was still crawling with rage. The last thing he wanted right now was for someone to hold him up, even if that person was Bucky. He would stand on his own two feet, so help him God._

_Bucky sighed, exasperated and long-suffering and ran his hand through his messy brown hair. He had seen Steve’s righteous fury a thousand times before and he knew better than anyone how Steve got when he was angry._

_“You better have a damn good reason for lettin’ those guys beat the shit outta you,” Bucky warned, crossing his own arms over his chest, mirroring Steve’s posture._

_Silence stretched between them for a moment while Steve tried to calm himself enough to speak. Laughter floated through the cold, biting air as a family left the diner nearby._

_“I’m waitin’, Steve.”_

_“They were talkin’ about queers, Bucky!” Steve growled, spitting out the words like venom._

_Bucky was silent, chewing on his lip as he regarded Steve. His gaze was steely and hard, but Steve knew that Bucky understood why he had gotten involved. Both of them hated the way people talked about homosexuals. Every time someone said something cruel about a queer, it felt like knife in the chest. Because they were talking about them. Him and Bucky. They were calling them “depraved” and “disgusting”. Saying that they were unnatural. A few bruises hardly compared to the pain those words inflicted._

_But that didn’t mean Bucky was going to let him off easy._

_“And that’s a good enough reason to go off and pick a fight?” Bucky asked, voice tight._

_“I didn’t pick a fight. I spoke up. It’s not like I went out lookin’ to get beat up!” Steve snapped, wincing as a sharp stab of pain shot through his left side. He pressed his hand against his ribcage and took a shuddering breath, wishing that he wasn’t as weak as he was._

_“Pick a fight. Speak up. It’s all the same,” Bucky shouted. “You’ve got a chip on your shoulder the size of Brooklyn itself, Rogers. You think fightin’ can help you prove yourself. But why do you hafta prove anything at all? Why can’t you just keep your head down?” He stepped toward Steve, eyes pleading with Steve to listen. But Steve squared his jaw, tilting his chin up and fixing his eyes on Bucky’s._

_“Because if I don’t speak up, I’m no better than the bullies.”_

_Bucky knew there was no arguing with Steve. So he just sighed and wrapped his arm around Steve’s shoulder, dejected._

_“Let’s get ya home,” Bucky murmured._

_They were quiet as they walked back to their apartment through the bitter January wind. The sun had been teetering on the horizon while Steve was being pounded into the cement in the parking lot. Now, as they made their way through the city streets, the sun dipped down and night faded in. All of Steve’s anger and adrenaline evaporated quickly as he dragged his aching body along block after block. The stabbing pain in his ribs made it hard to breath and it certainly didn’t help that the freezing air burned his lungs as he inhaled. Halfway to their apartment Steve started to get light-headed, but he didn’t complain. He’d brought this on himself after all. Besides, he still had Bucky to lean on._

_Pretty soon, they reached the fire escape steps and without a word, Bucky scooped him up and carried Steve up to their apartment. Steve was in too much pain to protest._

_Once inside, Bucky set Steve down on the couch and turned on their rickety old iron heater. Even though their building had heat, it was terribly inadequate, especially for Steve, who could catch a cold from a warm April breeze. Closing his eyes, Steve listened to the sounds of Bucky moving about the apartment- lifting the plank off their table/bathtub, putting a pot on the stove to boil, filling the tub with water._

_“Come on, Steve. I drew ya a bath.”_

_Steve opened his eyes and looked over at Bucky who was standing just inside the living room. He was now divulged of his jacket and his shirt was rolled up to his elbows. Worry was etched into his brow. Pushing himself off the couch with a low groan, Steve limped past Bucky into the kitchen and started to strip out of his clothes. Bucky hissed when Steve’s undershirt came off, revealing the nasty bruises on his back, sides, and chest. But Steve threw his head over his shoulder and looked back at Bucky, rolling his eyes pointedly._

_“Come on. You’ve seen me a lot worse,” Steve reminded Bucky as he unbuttoned his pants._

_“If I had my way, I wouldn’t hafta see you like this at all. Because you wouldn’t be runnin’ around pretendin’ you’re a champion boxer,” Bucky grumbled, taking a seat at one of their kitchen chairs._

_“Got news for you, Barnes, but you’re not always gonna get your way,” Steve shot back._

_Dropping his clothes onto the remaining kitchen chair, Steve sank down into the bathtub, letting the warm water soak into his muscles. His aching body welcomed the soothing heat and Steve groaned._

_“I just wish you would be more careful. I do want to keep ya around for a little while more,” Bucky murmured, reaching out and brushing his fingers through Steve’s blonde locks._

_Steve smiled up at Bucky’s sincere grey-blue eyes. “I know ya do. Even if I still don’t get why ya want a punk like me hangin’ around you.”_

_“Well ya wouldn’t. You’ve always been a little slow,” Bucky retorted._

_Laughing, Steve splashed Bucky, splattering the front of his shirt with water. Then Bucky dipped his hand into the water and sent a spray of water right into Steve’s face._

_“Jerk!” Steve spluttered, rubbing the water out of his eyes and doing his best to glare at Bucky sternly._

_“Well you started it!” Bucky teased, smugly flicking the water off his hand towards Steve._

_“One of these days, Barnes… I’m gonna knock your block off,” Steve warned, though he couldn’t seem to wipe the grin off his face to make his threat credible. How could he when Bucky was beaming at him with that smile that could make the stars look dim?_

_“I’m countin’ on it,” Bucky replied, bending forward and placing a kiss on Steve’s forehead, careful to avoid the cut. Then he stood up and retreated into their shared bedroom beyond the kitchen, leaving Steve to himself for a while._

_Blood slowly seeped into the water as Steve soaked away all the pain and negativity from before. When he was refreshed and the water grew cold, Steve climbed out of the tub. He decided to deal with emptying the tub in the morning. So he padded into the bedroom stark naked. As soon as he opened the bedroom door, a flash went off._

_“Bucky!” Steve shouted, blushing deeply as the other man rolled around on the bed cackling, Steve’s camera in hand. “What the hell!”_

_Smirking mischievously, Bucky sat up and took the photograph the camera printed, waiting for the image to resolve._

_“Thought it was ‘bout time to get ya back for all those awful pictures you’ve been takin’ of me,” Bucky replied. “Now come over here and get under the covers before you catch a cold.”_

_Steve, still beet red, slunk over to the bed, quickly dried himself off with a towel and slipped under the comforter. Bucky’s laughter redoubled and handed the picture over to Steve. It was God-awful. He looked like a limp, wet noodle. A limp wet noodle, covered in big black splotches. Steve couldn’t help but chuckle at how ridiculous he looked._

_“I hate you,” Steve grumbled, flicking the photograph back to Bucky._

_“And I love you,” Bucky purred, setting the picture aside and leaning over to press a series of kisses along Steve’s shoulder and up his neck._

_Bucky switched off the bedside lamp. Suddenly the terrible picture was the last thing on Steve’s mind._

_***_

Steve was woken from his restless dream by the sounds of screaming coming from the room beside him. In an instant, Steve was out of bed and bolting out his room towards Bucky’s. Throwing open the door, he found Bucky sitting up in bed, sheets clutched in his fists as he stared at the wall opposite him, panting. When Steve stepped into the room, Bucky’s head whipped around and his gaze fixed on Steve. Even in the dark, Steve could see the panic in Bucky’s eyes.

He approached the bed cautiously, hands raised to show he wasn’t going to hurt Bucky. Thankfully, Bucky didn’t recoil, just watched silently as Steve sat down on the edge of the bed.

Bucky’s light grey shirt was dark and wet with sweat and his hair, which had been swept back into a bun, was wild with strands that had come loose. Steve wondered if this is what Bucky had felt all the times he’d seen Steve sick or beat up. Had Bucky felt this helpless too?

“Was it a nightmare?” Steve asked quietly, eyes fixed intently on Bucky, who was looking at Steve but not quite. His eyes were unfocused, as if his mind was still trapped in whatever dark place it had been dragged to.

After a brief silence, Bucky seemed to wake from his trance and his grey- blue eyes flickered up to meet Steve’s. “Must have been.”

“What happened?” Steve asked, reaching out to place his hand on Bucky’s shoulder before stopping himself and letting it fall limply onto the bed between them.

“I don’t remember…” Bucky’s voice broke and he bowed his head, brown hair falling down and obscuring his face. Tears welled up in Steve’s eyes and he felt a pang of sorrow in his heart.

All Steve wanted was to help. If he couldn’t take Bucky’s pain away, the least he could do was try to ease it. But Steve didn’t know how.

He could save the world. But what did that matter if he couldn’t save the man he loved?

A tear spilled over and rolled down his cheek, followed by another and another. Before he knew it, Steve was crying silently while he stared helplessly down at his hands clasped in his lap.

Suddenly, he felt a hand reach out and brush the trails of water off of his cheeks. Looking up Steve came face to face with Bucky, who was still cupping Steve’s damp face with his right hand.

“Hey… Shouldn’t I be the one who’s cryin’?” Bucky pointed out, a gentle smile playing on his lips. And God, it was just like all the other times Bucky had brushed his tears away. Suddenly, it was 1936 and Steve was sitting on Bucky’s bed, tears pouring down his face as Bucky held him close and he whispered that Steve’s mom would be proud of him.

Lips twitching up into a smile, Steve laughed breathily and wiped at his eyes. “Yeah. You should. But since it doesn’t look like you’re gonna do it, I just figured I would do it for you.”

Bucky’s smile widened slightly and Steve felt his heart swell. He was afraid he’d never see that grin again. “Cryin’s not very manly, ya know, Steve.”

“Well I’m man enough for you,” Steve retorted, smirking playfully.

But then, suddenly Bucky recoiled, jerking away and clutching his hand to his chest as if Steve’s skin had burned him. Memories of 1936 vanished and reality came crashing back in, full force. Steve sat there stupidly, trying to think what he’d done wrong and what he could do to fix his mistake as he watched Bucky retreat back into himself.  

The pain of loss hit Steve like a ton of bricks. Bucky –his Bucky- had been there. But it was just a flash. There and gone again.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispered, not sure what else to do.

Bucky merely nodded, refusing to meet Steve’s gaze.

A long, painful silence followed as Steve stared at Bucky, helpless, heart in a vice. This was worse than all of the beatings and all of the illnesses Steve had ever faced. Because Bucky had always been there, whatever it was, to help him through it.

Even when he had nothing, he had Bucky.

Finally, Steve stood and started to make his way towards the door, but Bucky’s metal arm shot out, grabbing Steve’s wrist forcefully. The soldier stopped, looking between the fearsome metal hand and Bucky’s agonized face, heart pounding in his chest. Bucky’s eyes were intense and desperate. For a moment Steve thought Bucky would say something. But then Bucky relaxed his grip on Steve.

“I’ll see you in the morning, Bucky,” Steve assured, not sure where he had found the strength to keep himself so steady. Bucky nodded again.

Steve left the room and pulled the door closed behind him with a trembling hand. It was early. Just before five in the morning. But Steve couldn’t hope to sleep now and he couldn’t bring himself to leave Bucky alone- not after seeing the desperation in his eyes. So Steve sank down just outside of Bucky’s door, back leaned against the cool wall, and he guarded the room until the sun rose, all the while listening to Bucky’s quiet sobs within.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! The next update will be in two weeks.
> 
> Please comment. I live and breathe your praise; I learn and grow from your criticism.
> 
> Pester me on tumblr if you want! I'm suddenly-sherlock


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> History gets it wrong (as usual). Steve goes for a run. A glimpse of the past in the old neighborhood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you one and all for tuning into the latest installment of Of Men and Memory. I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> And wow! Civil War was amazing! Obviously this story isn't going to be Civil War compliant but I might include some details from it in this story. Nothing major. So don't worry, those of you who haven't seen it yet. 
> 
> Once more I'd like to thank the incredible [ghostlywhitedirewolf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostlywhitedirewolf/pseuds/ghostlywhitedirewolf) for beta'ing this fic. It wouldn't be nearly this good without her help.

_ Excerpt from Chapter 2 of  Captain America: Separating the Man from the Myth (1982) by Denise Keenan _

Of course, no one can fully understand the life of Captain America without also taking into consideration the life of his best friend and fellow soldier, Sgt. James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes.

Barnes was born March 20, 1917 in Shelby, Indiana but, like Rogers, he was raised in an immigrant neighborhood in the heart of Brooklyn. In fact, the two of them lived only two blocks away from each other. But it wasn’t until the summer of 1927 that they actually met.

“The way Barnes told the story,” explained Gabe Jones, one of the founding Howling Commandos, “When he arrived at the playground that day, he found crowd of children gathered ‘round side the swing set and heard the noises of a scuffle. So naturally, he went over to investigate and found two kids who were maybe twelve or thirteen beating the snot out of what looked to him, like a scrawny little six-year-old. So Barnes stepped into the fray and took a swing at one of the kids, knockin’ him in the teeth. That seemed to be enough to discourage ‘em. Usually all a bully needs is a good kick in the pants to set him straight. At least on playgrounds and schoolyards. But anyway, Barnes bent down to help the poor kid up and got punched in the eye for his trouble. Then the scrawny little kid took him back to his place so his ma could patch both of ‘em up. That skinny kid was Captain Rogers and that was how the two met.”

Little did either of these two boys know that they were forging a friendship that would last a lifetime. From then on Rogers and Barnes were inseparable.

“If you saw one of ‘em, you knew the other wasn’t too far away,” said Barnes’ younger sister, Rebecca. “Steve got to hanging around the apartment so much that I started to think of him as a brother too.”

Little is known about Barnes’ life before he met Steve Rogers, but, then again, there is probably little to be said. Any historian that has peered into that void in history has only come up with the same handful of dates and names. However, beginning the summer of 1927, a much richer history began to unfold- a history that told the tale of two young friends learning and growing together, watching each other’s backs, and of course fighting for their country side by side.

The story of Captain America and Bucky Barnes has always been a story of friendship and loyalty. There is a reason it’s rare to find pictures of Captain Rogers without Barnes at his side- because Barnes was always at his side. 

“You never saw two better friends in your whole life,” said Timothy “Dum Dum” Dugan, another Howling Commando. “You could always sense the history between them. I suppose that happens when you grow up with a person, but I grew up with my brother and we were never that close. But Rogers and Sarge- they were a unit. They brought out the best in each other. They weren’t just fighting for their country either. They were fighting for each other.”

It’s easy to let the powerful image of Captain America and all the myth and propaganda surrounding him to overshadow the importance of James Barnes to this country. But Bucky Barnes, and the friendship he forged with Captain Rogers, shaped the course of the war. It was his capture in 1943 that prompted Captain Rogers to take action against Hydra in an attempt to save him, and as a result Captain America became more than a piece of pro-American propaganda to help the allied forces and real weapon against the Nazis. Suffice it to say, had it not been for Barnes, the course of the war could easily have gone much differently.

Bucky Barnes shaped the life of the man who shaped the the century. By doing so, he left his own mark on history and rightfully earned his rank as a symbol of patriotism, loyalty and, above all, friendship. 

***

When the first early light began to peer through the kitchen window and bathe the apartment in pale grey, Steve knew he couldn't stay still any longer. Bucky had stopped crying just over an hour ago, and an unsettling silence had fallen. Steve's skin was crawling and he was filled with a familiar restlessness. These days, Steve could only keep himself still for so long before he started going stir crazy. His powerful body demanded that it be used to release some of his pent up energy.

It had been two weeks since he had been outside this apartment because he hadn't wanted to leave Bucky by himself. But now, Steve was practically vibrating with his need to move, to do something. He couldn't sit still in this tiny apartment a moment longer or he'd lose it.

Climbing up off the floor outside of Bucky’s bedroom door, Steve padded into his room and dressed himself, pulling a pair of navy sweatpants over his boxers and changing into a fresh T shirt. Then, for the first time since they had arrived, Steve stepped out of the apartment.

The grey-green paint on the walls was peeling and the ceiling was water stained. Everything smelled strongly of grime and mildew. As Steve passed through the dim hallway and down the stairs, he heard a few other people stirring inside their apartments. Some people returning home from the graveyard shift. Others getting ready to leave for their morning jobs. These people were working people- broke and barely scratching out a living. Just like Steve used to be. Steve felt a sort of kinship with them. He remembered growing up in an eclectic, immigrant neighborhood where everyone was living below the poverty line, even before the Depression hit. Like them, Steve knew what it was like to try and make something out of nothing.

Strolling through the little lobby area, Steve popped his earbuds in ,  taking a moment to scroll through his music before settling on “What’s Going On” by Marvin Gaye (Sam had managed to get him hooked on 70s R&B and Soul). Then Steve ducked out of the door to go for a run for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

The brightening sky cast the world in warm pastel ambers and oranges. All the grungy tenement buildings seemed to glow faintly, bathed in the warmth of the sunrise. Steve ran along the sidewalk as fast as he could without calling attention to himself, feet pounding a steady rhythm on the sidewalk. For once his mind was blissfully blank. He didn't think about Bucky. He didn't think about anything. He just listened to his music and ran.

God, Steve could do this forever. It was rare to find moments of peace because his mind was always racing, his thoughts loud and insistent. Feelings demanded to be felt. Memories insisted on being remembered. But for now Steve's mind was so blank he didn't even notice where he was going. Not until he found himself smack dab in the middle of his old neighborhood.

Apparently his feet had a mind of their own, and they had carried him back to what was familiar.

Steve slowed and stopped, standing in the middle of the sidewalk and staring up at the old buildings like a damn tourist. His chest was squeezed around his heart like a vice but he pulled out his headphones and stuffed them into his pocket nonetheless as he began to walk through the ghost city.  

Everything was a mixture of old and new. Or at least new to Steve. Some of the buildings had been torn down and replaced in the seventies and others had been renovated. But others still were the exactly the same as they had been when they were constructed before Steve had even been born. Hell, they were the same now as they had been when his ma stepped off the boat on Ellis Island. Steve wasn’t sure which kind of building made him ache the most. Either way, this whole part of town was filled with the echoes of what used to be.

There used to be clotheslines running between buildings and Steve could almost see them now, shirts and socks and slacks flapping like colorful banners in the wind. This part of town had always been dirty – city officials rarely bothered trying to clean up the immigrant neighborhoods- but people always seemed to make the most of it. Steve remembered how lively the people in his neighborhood had been. Mr. Gimenez and his massive, stately Spanish Mastiff named Ferdinand, both of whom seemed like they had descended from royalty. Calliope and Georgios Petrakis, the siblings who ran the little sandwich shop on the corner, who always seemed to be yelling at each other even though they did it with friendly smiles on their faces. Cantankerous old Mrs. MacAuley, who lived just below Steve and his ma, and was rumored to be having an affair with the baby-faced milkman, Charlie. Children played “Cowboys and Indians” in the streets or pretended to be Superman or the Crimson Avenger. There was always life. 

But for now it was mostly still.

A few busy people hustled past Steve, on their way to wherever they were going, as Steve walked deeper and deeper into the old neighborhood. Every place he passed had a memory to go with it. Back alleys were rich with memories of blood and bruises. The dilapidated tenement buildings that hadn’t been torn down reminded him of all his neighbors, acquaintances, friends and rivals. He missed all of them. And he tried not to think of what had become of them.

It wasn’t long before he was standing in front of what used to be 1404 Alameda Avenue before the street name was changed. His old home. 

The building looked tired -slumped over and greying, gashes in the crumbling brick. No one had bothered caring for it and had just let it become more and more run down until it could barely hold itself up. And, in just over a month, it would just be a pile of rubble and dust, smashed in by a wrecking ball.

Steve had no idea why he was doing this to himself. Why was he immersing himself in everything he had lost? His guts were all twisted up in knots and it felt like his throat was about to close up.  But he couldn’t bring himself to leave. He missed this place. 

With his stomach doing nervous backflips, Steve began to climb up the rusted fire escape steps. They creaked under the weight of him, screaming in protest. It had been a long time since someone had set foot on these ancient metal stairs. This building was older than he was and had seen far more in its lifetime than he had in his. Steve almost wanted to apologize to it for asking it to hold him up again when it was barely strong enough to stand itself.

Soon, Steve reached the third floor. The window had been entirely torn out, leaving just the wooden sill, and Steve pushed down on it, testing its strength. It held, so Steve took a seat on it and stared out over his old neighborhood as the sun climbed higher into the sky and the city began to wake itself.

A memory drifted to Steve on the cool morning breeze.

It was the Fourth of July and Steve and Bucky were perched together on this very windowsill, watching as the sky darkened into velvet night. The summer air was heady and both Steve and Bucky had undone their collars and thrown their suspenders off their shoulders. Classic patriotic standards seemed to float up from every part of Brooklyn. Everyone seemed to share a feeling of warmth and pride- and excitement, of course, for the day’s grand finale.

Steve and Bucky held hands, neither one afraid that someone would spot them because all eyes were on the sky.

Sure enough, red, white and blue explosions began to light up the city, loud pops and crackles joining in the music.

“Happy Birthday, Steve,” Bucky whispered before pressing a kiss against Steve’s cheek. Steve smiled ruefully and squeezed Bucky’s hand.

“Today’s not really about me,” Steve reminded, rolling his eyes.

But Bucky, persistent as ever, replied, “But look. They’re shootin’ off fireworks just for you.”

Steve, a man in his twenties, knew that the fireworks weren’t for him. In fact, he’d know that for a long time. He’d only really believed that lie when he’d been a little toddler and his ma had told him the whole country was shooting off fireworks for him. But with Bucky at his side, looking at him like he was the sun, moon, and stars all rolled up into one, Steve could almost make himself believe it.

Steve sighed softly, running his hands over rough wood window frame as a gust of wind carried the memory back to where it had come from.

He knew he should get back. The sun was climbing higher and higher into the sky and he needed to make sure Bucky was okay. But Steve didn’t want to leave.

After a moment he let out a slow breath, and began to climb back down the creaking fire escape. Once he reached the bottom, he turned and ran his hand over the timeworn bricks, heart heavy. He loved this place. He loved every inch of it. He loved the memories he had made here, even if it made him ache to recall them.

As Steve turned and began to head back towards his new apartment, a cold realization hit him. Suddenly, Steve knew why he didn’t want to leave the neighborhood.

He felt closer to Bucky here than he did when Bucky was right beside him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! The next update will be in two weeks.
> 
> Please comment. I live and breathe your praise; I learn and grow from your criticism.
> 
> Want to talk to me? Pester me on tumblr! I'm suddenly-sherlock :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve eats breakfast by himself. Sam Wilson is a good bro. Sketching serves as a coping mechanism. Steve tells a story. Sam Wilson is the BEST bro (and he gives the best advice).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being SO LATE with this latest update! It's the end of the school year and things are kind of hectic. I had to write a play and a speech and take finals... It's all a mess. I hope you all can forgive me. 
> 
> Once again I'd like to thank [ghostlywhitedirewolf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostlywhitedirewolf/pseuds/ghostlywhitedirewolf) for being kind enough to take time out of her busy life to beta this fic. She has saved all of you from many grammatical errors and from some terribly awkward phrasing.
> 
> Unfortunately, she's moving right now and can't really help me out anymore. I desperately need a new beta. If you might be interested in beta'ing or know someone who would like to, please message me on tumblr. I'm suddenly-sherlock.

The run back to the apartment was a lot less calm than the run out; feelings of guilt were nipping at his heels the whole way back, and his mind would not fall quiet. No matter how high he turned up his music, he couldn't drown out his thoughts.

What kind of friend was he?

Steve loved Buck, that wasn't even a part of the question. He had loved Bucky from the first day they met when Bucky saved him on the playground. From the very first moment, Steve had been struck by how brave and selfless Bucky was- willing to put himself on the line for a stranger like Steve. Even at eight years old, Steve had known that was a rare thing. And it wasn't long after that that Steve had found himself head over heels _in_ love.

So it wasn't a question of whether or not he loved Bucky, it was more a question of _which_ Bucky he loved more- the man or the memory.

Steve wasn't sure he knew. And Steve wasn't sure what that said about the kind of person he was.

After he'd changed – after he'd become Captain America– Bucky hadn't faltered in his love for him even though he knew that Bucky had hated it. He’d hated that Steve was overseas, right in the line of fire. He’d hated that Steve had been experimented on, changed into a weapon and a piece of propaganda; Steve knew that part of Bucky had hated that Steve wasn't the perfect size to hold anymore. But Bucky had never stopped loving him.

Bucky had been there for Steve, and now when Bucky needed him, what was Steve doing? Now more than ever, Bucky needed his love and his patience, but Steve was focusing more on the memory of Bucky than he was on the man himself.

Maybe it was because he was afraid that he'd find the man he loved so desperately just didn't exist anymore, and Steve wasn't sure he could bear that. He couldn't lose Bucky a second time.

***

It was late morning by the time Steve returned to the apartment, but Bucky was still holed up in his room. Steve made his way to the kitchen and began to go through the motions of the day, getting out ingredients for breakfast just as he had every other day these past two weeks. He made scrambled eggs and toast for two even though he knew the chances of Bucky touching his food were slim. If he didn't make food for Bucky, though, Steve would feel like he was giving up on him. He'd already let Bucky down enough, so he made breakfast.

Once the meal was ready, Steve sat down at the table. His emotions tumbled around inside him as he methodically cleaned his plate, not even tasting his food.

Part of Steve felt like he wasn't the person best suited to help Bucky anymore. Yes, he'd spent the past year scouring the Earth for him, and yes, having Bucky with him was comforting because that way Steve knew that he was safe. But he also had expected that when he got Bucky back, he would get _his_ Bucky back. Maybe a little more broken and haunted, but still Bucky.

There was a chance that Bucky would be an entirely changed man. His Bucky might be lost and Steve knew himself well enough to realize that he wasn't prepared to handle that possibility. Bucky needed someone who understood some of what he was going through and didn't have expectations about the sort of person he should be.

However, Bucky had also asked to remember, and the only person who could help him with that was Steve. If only Steve knew _how._

The longer he stayed here the more helpless Steve felt.

Once he finished eating, Steve started to tidy up. He was in the middle of washing his plate in the kitchen sink when there was a knock on the door. Steve jumped at the noise, dropping the dish into the metal sink with a loud clatter.

“Damn,” Steve grumbled, before making his way out of the tight kitchen space, over to the door and peering out of the peephole. The tightness in his chest immediately eased when he saw who it was.

“Sam,” he breathed, throwing open the door and immediately pulling Sam into a hug. God, it was good to see him. It had been over a month since the last time they'd been together and two weeks since they had spoken.

“Hey, Cap,” Sam answered, allowing Steve to hug him for a moment before pulling away. His dark eyes wandered over Steve’s face, assessing him. “Rough day?”

Steve let out a weary, breathy laugh. “You could say that.”

Sam nodded in understanding, and Steve gave him a half-hearted shrug before moving out of the doorway to let Sam into the dark, stuffy little apartment.

“I'm sorry I couldn't get here sooner. It’s almost impossible to get in or out of D.C. ever since that national security bill passed,” Sam explained as he stepped into the claustrophobic living room space and dropped his bag, which had been slung over his shoulder, onto the ratty couch, making himself at home.

It was Steve’s turn to give an understanding nod. The Rath Anti-Terrorism Act had passed just a few months after the D.C. Massacre and had tightened security across the nation, but nowhere more so than in Washington. Airports now required background checks before you were able to fly into or out of D.C., random car stops were a common occurrence, and it was easier than ever for the government to detain suspected terrorists. As if any of that could stop an organization like Hydra or prevent an alien attack from happening.

“Well, I’m really glad you’re here now,” Steve admitted. He really was. Sam’s presence steadied Steve, who felt completely out of his depth. Even though Steve knew that Sam didn’t really know what to do either, at least Sam was calm. “It's been kind of hard.”

“I can tell,” Sam replied, giving Steve his trademarked worried friend look. “You look like hell.”

That was probably true. Steve’s was incredibly exhausted. He had been for a long time, but everything going on with Bucky had really taken it out of him. Anyone who knew Steve well would be able to see it immediately. Still, Steve just shrugged because he really wasn't the person Sam needed to be worried about at the moment.

“I take it he’s not doing any better?” Sam asked, taking a seat beside his backpack on the couch.

Sighing, Steve sat down on the wooden coffee table across from him. “He had a nightmare last night. I'm sure it's not the first one, but it's the first where he woke up screaming and I just– I just didn't know what to do to help him.”

“There’s not always something you can do. You just have to be there for him and hope that that’s enough.”

Steve laughed bitterly, ignoring the sympathetic look on Sam’s face. “Oh yeah. I’m a big help. I make breakfast that he doesn't eat. I make conversation that he doesn't respond to. I try to help him… but I can’t even comprehend what he's been through.”

“You know he appreciates you being here.”

“I don't know anything, Sam. Not anymore. I don't know what to do or even where I stand with him…”  Steve trailed off, noticing Bucky standing in the narrow hallway that led to the bedrooms. Both Sam and Steve stood up and turned to face him.

“Bucky,” Steve murmured, guilt gnawing on his heart. Seeing Bucky reminded him what a terrible friend he was. How selfish he was. The other soldier looked even rougher than usual, hair tangled and greasy, dark circles surrounding his glassy eyes. Here Steve was, worrying about himself when Bucky needed his help.

Bucky’s wary eyes flickered back and forth between Steve and Sam before settling on Steve inquisitively.

“This is Sam,” Steve introduced while Sam gave Bucky a kind smile.

“Hey. Nice to meet you,” Sam greeted in his usual friendly way.

There was a pause while Bucky looked Sam over. Then, abruptly, he said, “We met before. I tried to kill you.”

Silence fell, the weight of Bucky’s words falling flat at their feet. Steve’s heart pounded nervously in his chest as he looked back and forth between his two best friends. Bucky was wary of strangers now. On their 2 am subway ride to this apartment, Steve had noticed the way Bucky’s fists had clenched on his thighs and his eyes had darted around from person to person, assessing threats. He prayed that Bucky wouldn't view Sam as a threat, but Steve couldn't actually tell what Bucky was thinking. His face was completely blank as if he had just been asked to recite the alphabet; his posture wasn't aggressive, but it certainly wasn't relaxed either and energy pulsed through his body. Sam didn't seem phased by any of it, though, his polite smile never wavering.

“That's okay. I tried to kill you too,” Sam responded lightly.

The barest ghost of a smile appeared on Bucky’s lips. “No you didn't. You were too busy trying to save this guy here to bother with me.”

Sam chuckled and shook his head. “I guess that's true. Captain America needs a surprising amount of saving.”

“No kidding,”  Bucky snorted.

All the anxiety Steve had about the two of them meeting vanished as he watched them slip into conversation relatively easily. As far as he could tell, Bucky seemed comfortable with Sam’s presence, which was a weight off Steve’s shoulders. Bucky needed to be able to talk with someone. That was the whole reason Sam was here- because Bucky needed someone to talk to. Someone other than Steve.

“Sam works at the VA,” Steve told Bucky when the other two’s conversation lulled.

“Well I used to. Until I accidentally became an Avenger,” Sam qualified. “But yeah. I worked there as a therapist. So Steve asked me if I could come and talk with you… Does that sound okay? Talking with me?”

Bucky was quiet for a long moment, staring into Sam’s honest brown eyes. He glanced over at Steve, as if to ask permission, and Steve nodded his assurance.

“Do you want to talk right now?” Bucky asked in a low, almost timid voice, wrapping his arms around himself.

“Yeah. If that's alright with you.”

Bucky nodded his consent, so Sam approached him, slow and easy, keeping his hands clearly in Bucky’s line of sight- a habit Sam must have picked up after dealing with troubled veterans for so long. After all, you can't pull a weapon if your hands are in view. Bucky seemed to realize what Sam was doing because his cold, silvery eyes thawed a bit and his lips twitched.

“I'm glad I didn't kill you,” Bucky murmured.

Sam grinned at him. “I'm pretty glad too.”

With that, Bucky turned mechanically and lead Sam to his bedroom. The door clicked shut softly behind them.

As soon as he was alone, Steve dropped down onto the couch, unable to keep his exhaustion at bay any longer. It had been a long two weeks that Steve had spent trying to keep himself from falling to pieces. And Steve was so tired of pretending to be strong for Bucky.

For a moment, it was nice not to have Bucky with him.

Just the thought made his stomach churn guilty. Sometimes, Steve honest to God hated himself. He wasn't half the man the world wanted him to be.

And he was even less the man that Bucky needed.

***

Sam and Bucky spent the entire day talking. Steve didn't dare interrupt so he spent his time puttering around the apartment, trying to keep himself occupied. At lunch he cooked again, incorporating the leftover eggs from breakfast into a pan of rice to make stir fry. He made enough for three, but nobody emerged from Bucky’s bedroom, so he ate alone again.

After lunch, he took his sketchbook over to the window, perching on the sill like he used to, knees drawn up to his chest with the sketchbook resting on them. It felt comfortable to sit like this even if he could barely fit in the window’s frame. A residual habit from having spent most of his life so small. Or at least, most of the life he’d actually gotten to live.

Outside, people waved at each other, stood on street corners, talked on their phones, shuffled along pavement. They did the things that real, ordinary people did. They went about their business and lived their lives.  

Sometimes Steve wondered if his life was real. All of it- everything he’d done since he’d come back from the ice- seemed like something out of an episode of _Flash Gordon_ or one of those terrible sci-fi novels Bucky used to read. Alien invasions? Villainous robots? How could any of that be real? Looking back on everything, Steve could barely make sense of it all.

And for some crazy reason, people thought he was qualified for all of this. In reality, he was just holding on by a thread.

Perhaps it was for the best that the world demanded so much of him. At this point, Steve had been fighting too hard for too long. There wasn’t anything else left for him but to keep soldiering on.

Steve put his pencil to paper, sketching the neighborhood as he saw it through the windowpane. There was a group of five Latino guys milling around on the steps of the apartment building across the street. One guy in particular drew Steve’s attention- the way he held the cigarette lazily between his lips and his carelessly styled hair reminded Steve of Bucky when he used to slouch on the fire escape and smoke.

Christ, Steve couldn’t seem to get the past out of his head. It was like being with Bucky had flicked a switch inside him, and all the memories he’d locked away inside himself had come bursting out, as bright and vivid as ever. His old life was lurking around every corner. It was in the curve of Bucky’s lips and the grey-blue of his eyes.

Pushing his thoughts to the back of his mind, Steve poured himself into the lines and curves he made with his charcoal pencil.

Like running, art was one of the few things that could calm his noisy mind. It always had. When he was little and he was confined to bed because of a cold or a bad fever, Steve spent his time copying the cartoons out of the funnies section of the newspaper. For a while, it took his mind off the way his head hurt and his bones ached. He spent so often sick in bed that it wasn't long before he’d graduated to designing cartoons characters of his own. Then to sketching out objects. Then to drawing people. Steve was never so foolish as to call himself an artist, but he always hoped to be one someday.

These days, though, art was more of an escape than a dream for the future. If only for a little while, drawing helped him get out of his own head. As long as he was drawing, his body and mind were at peace. With a pencil in his hand, Steve could almost grasp onto a sense of purpose again.  

A long time passed without Steve even really being aware of it. All he really registered was the changing light. Mostly he just focused on filling up the page and pouring some of his feelings into his artwork. He drew the Latino man with the cigarette and the lazy smile. He drew a tall woman with cinnamon skin and wavy hair that hung down to her waist. He drew a bearded homeless man of about 25 or so with two fingers missing from his right hand. In each drawing, Steve imparted his subject with a quiet desperation that reflected his own.

He rubbed his thumb over the drawings, turning the cross hatched shadows into soft shading. This was his favorite part- smoothing out all the harsh lines and feeling accomplished at having made something sort of beautiful.

Steve flipped back through his sketchbook until his eyes landed on a drawing of Bucky. Because, as always, all paths led him back to James Buchanan Barnes.

It was not actually a drawing of Bucky, but of the Winter Soldier, muzzled and gazing fiercely off the page with a look of confused rage in his eyes. Looking at it made Steve's heart tighten all over again, because the Winter Soldier’s cold eyes had burned themselves into his mind. After recognition had flickered in those grey irises, only to be replaced with fury. Fury with Steve for confusing the mission parameters and trying to get him to break protocol.

Steve could still feel the metal of Bucky’s first driving into his face while the anguished look in Bucky's eyes split his heart in two.

“I'm starving. How about you?”

Snapping the sketchbook closed, Steve turned around to look at Sam, who was leaning against the doorframe that lead into the narrow hallway. Sam looked exhausted, his shoulders bowed under the weight of whatever Bucky had told him. But he also looked content too, like he knew he had helped.

“What time is it?” Steve asked, climbing off of the windowsill, his tight muscles groaning in protest at having to move after being held still for so long. It was obviously late- the only light in the apartment came from the streetlights outside.

“About ten o’clock,” Sam replied, watching as the blonde stretched his arms over his head.

“Christ,” Steve breathed. Six hours perched on that windowsill. And Sam had been talking with Bucky even longer than that. No wonder Sam looked so worn out.

“So, how about it Cap? Want to go grab something to eat?” Sam asked, ambling into the living room to look through his bag, which he'd left on the couch. Steve glanced anxiously down the hall towards Bucky’s room, and Sam caught Steve's look. “Don't worry. He’s not going to leave. Probably not gonna come out of his room tonight either.”

“I just… I don't want to leave him alone,” Steve murmured.

Sam looked up at Steve, giving him a little knowing smile, making his heart pound nervously.

Sometimes he wondered if Sam knew _._  A lot of the time it seemed like Sam suspected, but Steve neither confirmed nor denied anything. Steve hadn't actually told anyone about his relationship with Bucky. Natasha had just sort of figured it out. It wasn't that he didn't trust Sam, it was just that Steve didn't know how to talk about that part of himself.

After he came back, Steve had inherited the legacy of Captain America and all the political propaganda attached to it. Everyone had their own thoughts about the importance of Captain America and what sort of man he was. Steve was still trying to figure out how he fit into this new world, so he hadn't bothered to correct any of the assumptions made about him. Then, suddenly, the world had needed saving. So there had been more important things to worry about.

Besides, even if he had tried to correct the misconceptions, Steve wasn't sure if anyone would listen anyway. At this point, he had no control over his public image. No one wanted to know that Captain America was a queer socialist whose first language had been the tongue of his immigrant mother rather than that of his own country. No one wanted to know that the great unrequited love of his life had not been Peggy Carter as most historians claimed (even though he had loved her and nearly made love to her more than once). That it had actually been his childhood best friend, James Barnes- the symbol of loyalty and friendship. The truth didn't fit with the narrative the public wanted to hear.

Steve wasn't even sure how comfortable with the truth he was himself, so he’d never told Sam. Sam wasn't stupid though. He had to know at least part of it. The man had followed Steve around the world as he'd torn apart Hydra bases and tirelessly pursued leads in search of Bucky. He had to know that Bucky had been more than just a friend to Steve. But he never asked, so Steve never told- just the way he had been taught.

“He’s gonna be fine,” Sam assured him, slipping his wallet into his pocket and sidling up to Steve so he could clap him on the shoulder. “Besides, you look like you need a drink. And it would do you good to get out of the apartment for a couple hours.”

Steve couldn’t argue. The walls of the claustrophobic little apartment were already starting to press in on him, making him feel a little anxious. Apparently his run earlier hadn’t managed to purge all his pent up energy. And he definitely needed a drink. So Steve acquiesced and followed Sam out of the apartment for his second outing in the past two weeks.

They opted to walk to the bar Sam had spotted on the way to Steve and Bucky’s hideaway, figuring that nobody would be stupid enough to get rough with a couple of guys of their size and any who was would sorely regret that they had been.

A cold autumn wind bit into their skin, and even though Sam was shivering, Steve barely felt it. One of the many perks of receiving the serum was that he practically radiated heat now, which was nice after growing up anemic with perpetually cold fingers and toes. Part of Steve was tempted to put his arm around Sam, just to help him warm up a bit. But that would probably be weird for both of them. Besides, you never knew who had a camera lurking in their hand, ready to snap a compromising picture of him. Before he knew it, that picture would be all over twitter and paired with the headlines of magazine articles reading “Captain America and the Falcon… Gay!?!?” It was the last thing he needed.

Fortunately Sam didn’t have to suffer long. Soon enough they were inside the sleazy bar, which reeked of sweat and stale beer. But other than that it was nice enough- plush leather booths, muted rock music and warm lighting. The patrons of the bar seemed pretty rugged, but everyone also seemed to be keeping to themselves and minding their own business. Steve and Sam took a booth in the back corner, away from prying eyes and ears. There was always the chance of being recognized, and all Steve wanted at the moment was to have a bit of privacy.

A waitress came over to take their orders. Her features were plain, but she had this air of elegance about her with her long, willowy frame, rich mocha skin and wise brown eyes. She was the sort of person Steve would love to draw because she seemed like the sort of person who had a million stories to tell.

“What can I get you boys?” She asked.

“I’ll have a burger and a beer,” Sam told her, flashing her his winning smile.

“I’ll have a whiskey,” Steve replied. “Nothing fancy. I like the cheap stuff just fine.”

“Nothing to eat?” The waitress inquired.

“No thank you, ma’am. The whiskey will be just fine.” Steve probably should have ordered something. He needed four times the calories that a regular person did, but, at the moment, the thought of food just made him feel like he had rocks in his stomach.

Nodding, the waitress turned on her heel and strode away, leaving Sam and Steve to themselves.

“Whiskey, huh? Never really took you for a whiskey sort of guy,” Sam said inquisitively, quirking an eyebrow at Steve.

“Oh, I used to drink whiskey all the time,” Steve replied, shrugging. Sam tipped his head to the side a bit and raised both eyebrows now, signaling for Steve to keep talking. So he did. “Bucky always used to keep a bottle of the cheap stuff around the apartment in case he had a really bad day at work and needed let loose a bit. And whenever Bucky drank, I usually drank with him.”

“Bucky do a lot of drinking?”

“Oh no. He didn’t want to wind up alcoholic like his dad.“ Sam seemed surprised by this bit of news, and that didn’t shock Steve. That piece of information hadn’t made it into the history books. None of the historians seemed to care at all about Bucky’s family. For that reason, Steve felt obligated to continue. Bucky’s life had been swept under the rug for too long and _somebody_ , besides himself, ought to know about the Barnes family. “Not that Mr. Barnes was a bad man or anything. He was a real good man. A hard worker and he loved his family. But if he wasn’t on the job, he was nursing a flask… Bucky and his sisters just never really got the attention that they needed from him. I don’t think Bucky ever resented him for it... but he just didn’t want to end up the same way, you know?”

Just then, their waitress arrived with their drinks and Sam fell into a contemplative silence while he sipped his beer. Steve was just fine with being quiet and tending to his whiskey. He didn’t really have all that much to say anyway. More and more, he was starting to feel like a grandpa, waxing poetic about the good old days. Sam never seemed to mind it, but Steve still didn’t want to be a burden.

The silence stretched for a while. Sam had gotten his food and had been eating for a good couple of minutes before he set his burger down and folded his hands and the water-stained table.

“Alright, Steve. It’s your turn,” Sam announced.

Knocking back the last of his whiskey, Steve raised his eyebrows cluelessly. “My turn for what?” Sam just fixed him with a “don’t play dumb with me” look, and Steve threw up his hands to illustrate his confusion. “I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about, Sam.”

Heaving a long suffering sigh, Sam fixed his brown eyes on Steve’s. “Bucky isn’t the only one who needs someone to talk to.”

Instantly, Steve felt his chest constrict anxiously, which was ridiculous because this was _Sam_ after all. He didn’t need to be nervous around Sam. But maybe the tightness in his chest came from remorse rather than anxiety. This was never supposed to be about _him_. This was supposed to be about Bucky- about helping Bucky get better. But, instead, he spent his time thinking about himself and what he wanted and his problems. Obviously, Sam had picked up on the fact that Steve was caught up in own head and was trying to help, when really, Steve shouldn’t even be complaining.

Before Steve could even utter a word of protest, though, Sam held up his hand to cut him off.

“You don’t have to be so noble all the time, Steve,” Sam said quietly, keeping his dark eyes fixed on Steve’s. “Keeping everything bottled up inside is only going to end up hurting you… Talking about your problems isn’t the same as complaining, and asking for help isn’t the same as being weak.”

Steve stared back at Sam for a long moment while his defenses began to rapidly crumble. The force of his emotions hit him once again and Steve deflated, his shoulders slumping as he bowed his head, taking a couple of shaky breaths. He wanted to talk. He desperately wanted to talk, but as always, when it came to talking about himself, Steve had no idea where to begin. So Steve just said the first thing that came to his lips.

“I failed him.”

The words hung taunt in the air. The truth that always gnawed on his heart out in the open and exposed. Sucking in another stuttering breath, Steve looked up and met Sam’s gaze. There was such _kindness_ and _understanding_ there, and Steve almost wanted to cry because he’d done nothing to deserve it. Sam probably thought that Steve was exaggerating or looking at things from a skewed perspective, but Steve knew it was the truth. He’d failed Bucky in every way that counted, and he was failing him now.

“How’d you fail him, Steve?” Sam prompted, seeming to recognize Steve’s trouble articulating himself.

Steve huffed out a bitter laugh and looked down at his empty whiskey glass. “Do you want the complete list or just the bullet points?” Sighing heavily, Steve began run his fingertip around the rim of the glass. “He survived the fall. Which means I could have too.. I could have jumped into the ravine after him, pulled him out before those bastards at Hydra ever got their filthy hands on him.”

“You couldn’t have known that-”

“But I could have gone and looked for his body… Bucky deserved to have his body sent home. Back to his family. To be buried on American soil rather than to freeze over at the bottom of a gorge in Russia… If I had just done that I would have found him and… And none of this would be happening right now.”

Sam was silent, watching Steve intently and waiting for him to go on. Steve chewed on his bottom lip and tried to swallow the lump rising in his throat. “Bucky never got the life he deserved, and that’s on me.”

“You didn’t even get to live your own life, Steve,” Sam reminded him gently.

“Well, it wouldn’t have been much of a life anyway,” Steve muttered.

“Why’s that?”

Eyes darting up from the table, Steve’s insides went cold as he realized his mistake. His friend was gazing at him inquisitively, probably completely unaware of Steve’s internal panic. Because now he was going to have to explain… Come clean. Come _out._ And even though Steve knew there was nothing to be afraid of with Sam, he still felt dread bubbling in the pit of his stomach.

“I… he was dead,” Steve said lamely.

“But you would have been okay. You would have moved on eventually,” Sam replied.

“No. I wouldn’t have,” Steve insisted. Dropping his head again and gazing at the table, Steve tried to collect himself. How should he try and explain it? What were the right words to say? How was he even supposed to get his emotions under control enough to begin this talk? “He was my… I… We were lovers,” Steve blurted. Sam didn’t even so much as blink, and Steve chuckled ruefully. “I guess you knew that, huh?”

“I thought it was possible,” Sam affirmed, picking up his abandoned hamburger and taking a bite.

“Good thing I didn’t know many people like you and Natasha back in the day. If anyone had suspected what was going on between us, we both would have wound up in prison.”

“Well people like Natasha and I don’t give a shit who you go to bed with, Steve. So if we had been around back in the day, you would have had nothing to worry about.”

A self-conscious blush blossomed across Steve’s cheeks and a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “I guess that’s true,” Steve agreed, reminded once again why he loved Sam Wilson so much. He was such a genuinely good, caring person, and Steve was lucky to have him as a friend. But his smile faded as he sighed, running his right hand through his blond hair. “But the two of us got used to not having anyone on our side… Things were real different back then, Sam. It was just him and me against the world.”

And for the first time in his life, Steve began to tell the real story of Steven Grant Rogers and James Buchanan Barnes.

He still had to keep his voice low. There were still other people in the pub, and Steve couldn’t risk anyone hearing. But Sam was listening intently, and Steve knew that he wasn’t missing a single word.

Starting at the beginning, Steve told Sam about realizing he was in love with Bucky. Steve had only been twelve at the time so he'd been terrified and confused. All he'd known was that his feelings weren't normal. Then, when he was in church, his priest had gone off on a rant about homosexuality and how it was an affront to God. It had been enough to make him hate himself for _years._

At least until he’d discovered that the men- Jack and Ernest- living in the apartment above him and his ma that shared the same strange love he felt for Bucky. Steve had accidentally seen them kissing through the window while he had been monkeying around on the fire escape- and he had watched, fascinated, as they began to grope each other and then clumsily stumbled away into the bedroom.

He had been fifteen at the time and by now he had learned full well what kind of trouble being queer could get you into. That was the kind of thing men got beaten to death over or thrown in prison for. But Steve still felt compelled to tell his ma about what he’d seen. Maybe because he needed to know whether or not Sarah would still love him if she ever found out the truth about him. When Steve asked her if what they were doing was wrong, Sarah had taken him by the arms and said, “It’s never wrong to love another person, Steven. Just because they love differently, doesn’t make it wrong.”

After that, Steve had slowly began to accept that he was never going to stop loving Bucky. He was still confused about his feelings and a lot of that had to do with how his sexual attractions seemed to switch around so much. Sometimes he was attracted to a girl, sometimes a boy. Bucky was always a constant though. After all, he had learned what wanting was from wanting Bucky. But it was more than just wanting… practically everything Bucky did made his heart thrill. His smile, his jokes, the way he was good with his hands, his kindness, his charm, what a good brother he was to his sisters, his singing voice, his foul mouth, how he took care of Steve when he was sick, how he would always jump into the fray for Steve… the list just went on and on and on, growing longer every day.

Steve didn’t go into much detail about his sex life with Bucky with Sam. He preferred to keep that part private. But he did tell Sam about how their first time fooling around had been more of an accident than anything else- just two horny teenage boys who weren’t afraid to put their hands down each other’s pants if it meant they got to get off. Of course, it hadn’t been like that for Steve. For him, it had been like getting a piece of candy after having only bread and cabbage stew for a month. Nothing in the world was sweeter. But he pretended that it hadn't meant anything for Bucky's sake. He had no idea what Bucky would do if he ever found out that Steve was in love with him.

So he kept his feelings to himself, but he kept offering himself to Bucky. Because Steve wanted Bucky to have whatever Bucky was willing to take from take from him. They ended up fooling around a lot because Bucky never turned him away. Then both their walls came down,  and it stopped being just fooling around.

“I'm not sure when I figured out Bucky was in love with me too,” Steve explained, brushing his fingertips through his hair absently. “I think it was around the time that my ma died. That nearly killed me…. I loved my ma so much.” Smiling mournfully, Steve continued. “She made me the man I am today. She was the one who taught me to always stand up for myself. That it was my duty to fight injustice… Without her I was completely lost.”

Steve swallowed thickly. There were some losses that just never left you. Sarah’s death was one of those. No matter how much time passed, he still missed her, and he still felt a dull ache in his chest because there was a part of his heart that only Sarah Rogers could fill.

“When she died, I had nobody. Except for Bucky,” Steve murmured. “He refused to leave me alone. I guess he knew if he let me retreat into myself, I'd end up destroying myself. Bucky and his family took me in. And no matter how hard I tried to push him away, he just held onto me tighter. He always was a stubborn son of a gun.” Laughing fondly, Steve gazed down at the table like it was a picture in a photo album- like he could see Bucky’s bright eyes peering up at him from among the water stains. “When I finally got it through my thick skull that Bucky loved me as much as I loved him, I cried and cried. I realized that there was still hope for me. And I even dared to hope there might have been a chance for us…”

Trailing off, Steve sighed and shook himself out of his reverie. There was still more to the story, but it was well past midnight now, and exhaustion was creeping behind Steve’s eyes. Besides, he was sure that Sam needed sleep as much as he did. After all, he'd been listening to ninety year old soldiers talk for going on thirteen hours today.

Just as Steve was about to suggest they head back to the apartment, Sam spoke up. “There _is_ still a chance for you, Steve.”

A sad smile played on Steve’s lips. “I thought so too.”

“But you don’t anymore?”

Once again, Steve felt his guilt and self-loathing twisting up his insides. All this talk about falling in love with Bucky and pining for Bucky reminded him of what he had realized earlier that day. That he was more in love with the Bucky of his past than the Bucky of his present. That he was betraying the man he loved.

“I-” Steve’s voice cracked so he cleared his throat and started again. “I’m still failing him, Sam.”

Letting out a long, shaky breath, Steve tried to collect himself and swallow the lump in his throat. “I don’t think I should be the one helping him anymore. He needs someone… Someone who won’t have any expectations of him. Who won’t want want him to be something he’s not anymore… And part of me is always going to want the Bucky I fell in love with back. That's not fair to him. And it’s not that I don’t love him now. I’ll always love him. But it’s going to kill me to see that blank look in his eyes. It’s going to kill me to give him my love if he won’t take it… He needs someone who will be able to accept that he’s different now and that he’ll probably never be the same again.”

Steve had hoped that getting all these feelings out in the open would make them more bearable, but it made him feel even worse. The fact that Sam was silent for so long only made Steve feel more despicable too. Now Sam knew just how selfish Steve was. Steve just prayed that Sam wouldn’t think very much less of him.

Finally, Sam took a deep breath and spoke.

“The way I see it, Steve… is that you’re just overreacting to all of this,” Sam began. “You’re carrying around all this guilt, when, really, you’ve got no reason to. What you’re feeling _makes sense_ Steve. You miss your best friend. You miss the love you two shared. Sure, maybe it’s not helpful to him and maybe it won’t do anybody any good, but it makes sense. You should never be ashamed of your feelings. You’re _allowed_ to feel. No one ever said you’re not allowed to be angry, or heartbroken, or depressed. So stop being guilty about it and start working through it.

“And, if I were you, I wouldn’t give up on him so quickly. You’re not doing him any favors by quitting on him, and I think you know that. He didn’t come to me or anyone else for help, Steve, he came to you. That means he needs _you_. So you don’t get to just pass the buck, pun intended.”

Steve snorted a bit at Sam’s little joke but didn’t speak, waiting for Sam to continue.

“You say you love him?” Sam asked.

“Of course,” Steve replied.

“Then it’s time to do exactly that. He’s been deprived of love for seventy years,” Sam explained. “He’s been stripped of basic human decency, his dignity, and his personhood. You’ve got to show him that he’s something worth loving. And- you listen to this; this is important, Steve- it doesn’t matter if he ever accepts your love. When you were a kid, did you ever stop loving Bucky because you weren’t sure if he would love you back?”

“No,” Steve whispered.

“Exactly. Cause you don’t love a person because they’ll love you in return. You love a person because that’s what your soul tells you to do. Do you still love Bucky?” Sam inquired.

“Yes,” Steve stated. His answer came out so confidently, without him even having to think about it, and Steve realized that he had been a complete idiot for doubting his love.

“Then just keep loving him, Steve. Sure, you’re probably always going to miss the Bucky that you fell in love with. But you know what? I bet Bucky missed the little version of you after you became Captain America,” Sam pointed out. “Here’s the thing though, Steve: people change. You’re not the same man you were seventy years ago. Hell, you’re not the same man today as the one I met in D.C. But here’s the other thing: people stay the same too. There are some things about you that no one can ever change or alter because they’re inherently you. Same way no one can ever take away my charm and good looks.” Steve laughed at that and Sam smirked proudly before going on. “Same way that there are things about Barnes that will never change. Deep down, there are parts of the man you fell in love with just waiting to be rediscovered. The parts that Hydra couldn’t strip away no matter how hard they tried. They might be buried deep. They might be hard to find. But they’re there, Steve. It’s your job to help him to find them.

 Sam reached out and grabbed Steve’s hand, giving it a little squeeze. “No… he’s never going to be exactly the same. But your Bucky is by no means gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! The next update isn't going to be for a while. I'm having a lot of trouble with the next chapter and I really need a new beta. PLEASE let me know if you'd be willing to beta so much as one chapter. It would be an enormous help. 
> 
> Please comment. I live and breathe your praise; I learn and grow from your criticism.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Asset goes rogue. Breakfast is much better with company. Steve watches the news. The ice is finally broken... Bucky loves Steve's blush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! It's been a while guys. I warned you there would be a wait. Even so I apologize. This chapter was ridiculously hard to write, but here we are! The next installment of Of Men and Memory. 
> 
> This chapter does have a couple of trigger warnings, so be aware of these things: some violence early on in the chapter, a brief reference to self harm and suicide, a vivid description of an underweight body, and some mature sexual content at the end. 
> 
> A huge thank you to my new beta [stuckyismylifeforever](http://stuckyismylifeforever.tumblr.com) for stepping in to help me with this fic.

**Mission** **Report,** 17 December 1965

The Asset was dispatched to the Red Hook graving dock (Red Hook, New York) along with a team of two handlers (Rollins and Deville) and three supports (Myers, Smith and Weber) at 0100 hours. At that time, the Asset took the package (Gunter d’Alquen) into protective custody and began to transport the package to the safe house in Brooklyn Heights.

The Asset began to exhibit signs of agitation when the transport entered the residential section of Red Hook at approximately 0200. He began to shift in his seat and look out of the window. At first his senior handler, Agent Rollins, thought he was scanning the surrounding buildings for snipers, but it quickly became evident that the Asset’s focus was compromised.

The Asset’s agitation grew worse as the team proceeded deeper into Red Hook, through some of the older neighborhoods, and he began to question the team about what they were doing and where they were. When the team refused to answer, the Asset began to grow belligerent. Rollins employed the safe word three times, but the Asset was unresponsive. It was at this time that the other handler, Agent Deville, used his taser on the Asset. It was ineffective.

At approximately 0245 the Asset turned his gun on the driver, shooting him through the back of the head. Then he shot Deville followed by d’Alquen, who was in the passenger seat. It was at this time that the vehicle collided with another car that was parked along the street. Agent Smith died on impact. Agents Weber and Rollins engaged the Asset. After a brief altercation, the Asset snapped Rollins’ neck and knocked Weber unconscious. When Weber regained consciousness at 0303, he called in the assault.

By 0330, a team of twelve was sent in to track and extract the Asset. Standard tracking methods proved unsuccessful as none of the Asset’s protocols remained in place. It wasn’t until 2130 that the team located the Asset at 1404 Alameda Avenue in an empty apartment on the eighth story. Agents Clarke, Müller, and De Luca were also killed by the Asset before the extraction team finally subdued him.

The Asset was then returned to base for disciplinary action and reprogramming.

**Mission Status: Failed**

Comments: We believe memory may have been what triggered the Asset. Further reprogramming will be required if we hope to eradicate all aspects of the host. Until such a time, use caution when dispatching the Asset to Brooklyn.

***

Steve awoke the next morning to the smell of pancakes and bacon. Late morning sunlight streamed through the window and bathed the room in warmth. His limbs felt heavy and relaxed, and for a moment he was jarred into thinking it was another time in another place. That his ma was out there in the kitchen cooking breakfast for him even though she was going to have to leave for her shift in the TB ward soon. After all, Steve couldn't remember the last time he had slept in. Probably back before Bucky had enlisted. And the last time he had woken up to the smell of cooking breakfast must have been even before that.

The digital clock on his nightstand reminded him what century he was in, but Steve was still shocked. It was 10:30. Ever since he’d gotten the serum, his internal clock usually woke him at six on the dot with the only exceptions being when he’d been through a particularly rough battle (He’d slept like dead after the D.C. Massacre), but he hadn't been through a fight yesterday. All he had done was talk with Sam.

That actually probably explained why he had slept so well. After keeping his emotions bottled up inside for so long, laying everything out in the open had really eased his conscience. For once there had been nothing nagging at him in the back of his mind to keep him awake, and maybe it had relaxed him enough to allow him a few extra hours of peace.

He was almost reluctant to get up now. Who knew when his next chance to lay in bed and relax would be? But the enticing smells coming from the kitchen called to his stomach, which actually ached because he was so hungry. Skipping dinner had definitely been a mistake. So, Steve climbed out from under the comforter and changed into a fresh set of clothes.

In the kitchen he found Sam standing at the stove, tending to a frying pan full of bacon with a towering plate of pancakes resting next to him on the counter.

This was why Sam Wilson was the best friend anyone could ever ask for.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Sam exclaimed, tossing a grin over his shoulder toward Steve that Steve couldn’t help but return. For the first time in a very long time, morning seemed bright again, and he owed that to Sam. If he hadn’t come here, Steve would still be tangled up in fear and self-doubt. Sam had more than just reassured him. Sam had reminded Steve of his purpose.

“What’s all this?” Steve asked, eyeing the massive stack of pancakes.

“Haven’t you ever seen breakfast before?” Sam teased, turning off the stove and leaving the bacon to crackle and pop in the pan.

“Not one this good. Not in a long while at least,” Steve replied gratefully.

“Well then pull up a chair. That is, assuming you want breakfast?”

Steve snorted and sat down at the little kitchen table. “You even need to ask?”

With a chuckle, Sam placed the platter of pancakes and the skillet of bacon in the middle of the table for them to share. And Sam, the angel that he was, had managed to get ahold of a bottle of maple syrup, and he set that on the table too. After handing Steve a plate, Sam began to serve himself. They both had learned that Steve should not serve himself first while they had been sort of living together during their manhunt for Bucky. Steve still had some residual habits from growing up poor and hungry during the Depression- such as taking as much food as he could and saving the rest for later. The only problem with that was, now that he had a super soldier appetite, there was no “rest for later” or much at all leftover for Sam to eat. Sam had ended up with a couple of tiny meals, much to Steve’s everlasting shame. Then they came up with the brilliant solution to let Sam serve himself first and then let Steve devour the leftovers.

As soon as Sam had plated up his breakfast, Steve began to dish up his own. He was so happy to have company at the table. Two weeks of eating meals by himself had hurt him more than he’d ever care to admit.

Mealtime had always been sort of sacred for Steve. It was silly, he knew, but for him it was something of an act of comradery - breaking bread with someone. An act of communion, just as important as the wine and crackers you’d take in church. It was like his mother said, “Unlike Jesus, you never know when it will be your last supper. So if you can, try to share your supper with someone you love.” So Steve had always made a point of sitting down to dinner with friends or family whenever it was possible, no matter how little there was to go around. For most of his life it had been Bucky he would eat with. They’d sit side by side at their kitchen table/bathtub and wolf down matching sandwiches or bowls of stew while they each recounted their day. Then, during the war, they’d huddle by the fire together with a few cans of beans and maybe some bread if they could get their hands on it. So eating alone at the table with Bucky in the room just beyond had made him feel incredibly hollow. Having Sam here for breakfast was a comfort to say the least.

“So how are you doing today, Steve?” Sam asked as Steve set to work smothering his pancakes in syrup.

“Good. Really good, actually,” Steve admitted.

“Oh yeah?” Sam asked.

“Well I slept through the night for the first time in months. That's definitely something,” Steve replied, giving Sam a smile.

“Glad I could help,” Sam replied, returning the grin with ease.

The room fell into companionable silence for a moment while they worked on clearing their plates. As they ate, Steve watched Sam out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t help but wonder how Sam’s life was so… put together. When it came down to it, he and Sam had very similar pasts. Sam grew up in a tough Harlem neighborhood, Steve grew up in Red Hook. Like Steve, Sam’s father was killed before Sam was really old enough to remember what he was like. Sam’s mom died when when he was twenty, Steve’s when he was eighteen. As kids, they both did dumb shit. As adults they were both soldiers. Each of them had watched their best friend die. Yet, somehow, Sam was so well adjusted now. When they met, Sam had been living a rich, fulfilling life in D.C with friends, family- the whole nine yards. Steve could hardly even imagine having  those things anymore, let alone giving it up, which was exactly what Sam had done when Steve and Natasha showed up on his doorstep covered in rubble and dust.

“Thank you again, Sam,” Steve murmured, setting his fork down. “For everything you’ve done.”

“Hey, don’t mention it,” Sam shrugged.

“No really. Thank you. If it wasn’t for you… I don’t know where I’d be today.”

Just then, they heard a door in the hallway shut, followed shortly by the sound of running water in the bathroom.

Bucky had finally emerged from his room. And, to Steve’s shock, he was going to take a bath.

Steve stared down the narrow hallway for a long moment before turning to look at Sam again. “He hasn’t bathed in a week and a half,” Steve whispered, as though in awe. Perhaps he was in awe. Or maybe it was something else entirely. A twisted, unnerved confusion seemed the most apt way to describe what Steve was feeling because it was just so strange. He was lucky to get Bucky to eat, let alone do anything else to take care of himself.

“Yeah. I noticed that,” Sam replied. Steve looked over at Sam sheepishly and shrugged apologetically. Honestly, Steve didn’t really mind the smell that much. It reminded him of summers in the old apartment, back before deodorant was really a thing, when Bucky came home from the docs smelling of sweat, grime, and stale cigarettes. Maybe it wasn’t a good smell, but it was a Bucky smell. So, in a way, Steve had always sort of loved it.

“I’m sorry… I guess I kind of got used to the smell,” Steve apologized.

“It’s alright. I worked with homeless vets for years. That's pretty much what Barnes is, if you think about it. So this is nothing new to me,” Sam assured Steve. They both turned to look down the hall again, listening to the sound of water rushing from the faucet.

“I can’t believe he’s doing this,” Steve murmured. Weeks of nothing. Weeks of Bucky wandering from room to room, doing nothing and saying nothing. Now, out of seemingly nowhere, a spark of life.

A soft, proud little smile appeared on Sam’s face. “Self care was one of the things Barnes and I talked about yesterday,” Sam explained. “Glad to see he took it to heart.”

Steve glanced over at Sam and then back down the hallway, his heartbeat thundering in his chest. He was overcome with emotion. He wasn't sure whether to laugh joyously or to break down and sob in relief.

_Your Bucky is by no means gone._

It wasn't much, Bucky bathing himself. But it was certainly a start.

***

The apartment was quiet again. Sam left soon after breakfast to go get settled into Avengers Tower, despite Steve’s ardent protests.

“Sam, you don’t have to stay there,” Steve repeated for what had to be the hundredth time even as Sam checked over his duffel bag to make sure he had everything he needed.

“Come on Steve, you know as well as I do that this apartment isn’t big enough to try and fit three superheroes,” Sam replied. “Besides, you two need privacy.”

He was right, of course he was. Sam Wilson was always right. He was like Natasha that way. And sometimes, that just made the lingering remnants of the scrappy little Brooklynite Steve was so angry he could spit.

“I could pay for a hotel room,” Steve insisted.

“I’m not going to put you out like that. Especially when there is a perfectly good five-star-hotel slash superhero headquarters that has an apartment suite with my name on it. If I’m gonna be an Avenger, I might as well start enjoying the perks,” Sam responded logically, shouldering his duffle.

“It’s just…” Steve sighed. “You’re going to be traveling here and back a lot. And there are always a lot of eyes on Avengers Tower. Not to mention the eyes _in_ Avengers Tower.” Steve knew that pretty much every room in the Tower had cameras. Even the apartments where they lived had cameras. They were only turned on if there was an emergency, such as an attack or break it. However, there was no way to know for sure whether or not someone would decide to turn those cameras on. If Steve and Sam were talking on the phone about Bucky and that happened…it would be all over for them.

Steve knew he was being paranoid, but he felt he was justified in his paranoia. Just over a year ago he’d found out his apartment had been bugged, the neighbor he had a crush on had been a spy all along, and half the people he worked with were double agents for HYDRA. Then, after everything with Ultron… Steve just wasn’t feeling too trusting these days.

No one could find out where he and Bucky were. Otherwise, Steve didn’t know what would happen.

However, maybe he wasn’t entirely worried about protecting Bucky. Having Sam here had changed everything. One day of his company had Bucky taking bathes and had kept Steve from eating breakfast alone. Part of Steve was afraid that without Sam here, everything would go back to how it was. With him and Bucky always close to each other but never truly together, passing each other by like ghosts in a graveyard. Back to the haunting. Back to the long stretches of lonely silence.

Sam nodded to show his understanding. “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful. I’m a black boy from Harlem. I know how to keep a low profile,” Sam assured him. Then he reached out and placed his hand firmly on Steve’s shoulder, grounding him, as his dark brown eyes bore into Steve’s. “You got this, Steve. I’ll come by in a couple of days to see how things are going.”

And that was that.

After Sam left, Steve wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself. Bucky was still in the bath and Steve didn’t want to disturb him. He also didn’t want to leave. Steve still felt a little guilty for leaving Bucky by himself to go for a run yesterday, and despite Sam’s assurance that Bucky would be fine if he left the apartment, the thought of it still made Steve nervous. The last thing he wanted was to be out of reach for Bucky. He wanted to be on hand in case Bucky needed him.

Instead of running, Steve did about a thousand sit-ups to relieve some of his tension.

After that, he decided to watch TV, and he spent some time flipping through channels. He watched a couple episodes of a show called _Legend of Korra_ because he thought the art was pretty, though he wasn’t entirely sure what was going on since the episodes were midway through a season. Korra was great though. She was a spitfire like he was when he was a kid. When the network changed programs, he went back to channel surfing. It wasn’t until he saw the banner on the news that Steve stopped again.

_Camila Romero, Daughter of Deceased S.H.I.E.L.D Agent, Addresses Nation_

Even though Steve knew what was coming, he couldn’t bring himself to stop. It was like watching a car crash. Or watching your best friend plummet into a ravine in Russia. Something horrible was bound to happen, and yet Steve couldn’t look away. 

“Today was meant to be my mother’s birthday,” said the woman on the screen, who must have been Camila. She couldn’t have been more than twenty three, and she had fine, elegant features. Everything about her was delicate and she seemed so terribly small behind the imposing wooden podium she stood at. She stood by herself in front of a massive audience, camera lights flashing intermittently, which made her look even more isolated. Steve’s heart broke a little bit for this young woman. He knew all too well the pain of losing a mother, and he knew how hard it was not to fall apart on those “special” days - the holidays and birthdays that a mother was supposed to be present for. The telltale mixture of grief, melancholy, and rage that Steve was so familiar with was evident on Camila’s heart-shaped face as she spoke. “Today, my mother was supposed to turn fifty years old. Today was supposed to be a day of celebration for my family. My father should be at the store picking up a german chocolate cake from her favorite bakery. My older brother should be flying in from Charleston with his wife. I should be at the store, picking out a gift for her right now… Instead, today, I will pick out flowers to decorate her grave.

You see, the world knew her as Susan Romero, but at work she had a different name. Agent 22. You can look her up on the S.H.I.E.L.D. database. Her service record for this country was outstanding. Twenty years as a member or S.H.I.E.L.D. Special Service. Another nine years working in Operations, where she coordinated over two dozen successful domestic missions with minimal casualties. In short, my mother was a hero. I didn’t even know it until more than a month after the S.H.I.E.L.D. data leak and by then the Triskelion had already come down.

I never knew my mother as a hero, I’d only known her as “mom”. Of course, I knew she worked for S.H.I.E.L.D, but no one in my family knew the nature of her work. That was all just part of deal. Mom was gone a lot when my brother and I were growing up, but, whenever she was home, she more than made up for the time she had missed. Because my mom lived every day like it might be her last. She’d come up with spontaneous road trips, and take all of us to the beach or to a theme park.” Camila paused for a moment, a small bittersweet smile playing on her lips, like she was caught up in a fond memory. “I remember, she’d always interrogate us about  our lives pretty much any time she was home. It was really annoying at the time, but now I understand why she did it. Because she didn’t want to die not knowing us. If she was going to die, she wanted to take the true memory of her family with her to heaven.”

Camila paused and took a shuddering breath, her eyes bright and red-rimmed, shimmering with unshed tears. It made Steve want to reach through the television screen and wrap her up in a hug. Everyone who was watching probably felt the exact same way.

“Turns out, that was never going to be the issue,” Camila continued in a tremulous voice. “My mother died and no one has a true memory of _her_. Anyone in the world can learn about the heroics of Agent 22. But they will never know my mother, Susan Romero, cyclist, cinema lover, world traveler, scrapbooker, and loving wife and mother, just as I will never know her as the hero she was.

One thing we all do know about my mother is that she sacrificed her life in the Triskelion attack, as did so many more people like her. People with hobbies, quirks, and curiosities. People with hopes and dreams. People with friends, lovers, and families... In the midst of the loss of life, did anyone stop to think about the depth of grief the D.C. Massacre caused? We are still grieving- all of us who lost a loved one in the Massacre. And we are angry too.

I ask you, what is being done? There have been no measures taken to prevent, repair, or atone. Our government is pawning off the very land upon which the Triskelion stood- the place where my mother died- so they can distance themselves from their failure. When aliens attacked New York, the government did everything it could to provide support to the victims of the attack. Where was that response after the D.C. massacre? Will there be no justice for us?”

Camila’s persona had shifted as she began to talk about justice and the failures of the government after the Triskelion attack. Where she had been small and timid before, now her eyes burned and her voice never once wavered. She _was_ angry. She was ready to tear down the world if she had to for this cause. She was just like Steve before the ice.

“We demand justice for the lives we lost that day! It begins with petitioning congress to vote against the Potomac River Clean Up Act, which is the name of the bill they tried to smuggle the sale of the Triskelion into. And, if there is ever going to peace for the victims of the D.C. Massacre, every Hydra terrorist must be tried and sentenced by a United Nations panel since Hydra isn’t just a matter of national security, but of international peace. It is time for Hydra to be stamped out once and for all.

And that begins with apprehending Hydra’s greatest weapon, the Winter Soldier. As more and more of the S.H.I.E.L.D. data leak is processed every day, we learn more and more about his work for Hydra and his terrifying abilities. Preternaturally enhanced, equipped with a nearly indestructible metal arm, proficient in nearly every firearm known to man, the Winter Soldier is their most valuable asset. He has been integral to Hydra’s method of international destabilization since his recruitment. As long as he walks free, Hydra can survive and continue their efforts to destroy this world. They will be free to kill people like my mother, whose life was dedicated to protecting American citizens. Another tragedy like the Triskelion attack will soon be on it’s way.

They say, about Hydra, “if you cut off one head, two more shall take it’s place”. I say, it’s time to cut off The Fist of Hydra, and see how well it survives without its right hand man.”

The audience on TV was just erupting into thunderous applause when Steve shut off the TV. He was up in an instant, anger boiling inside him like a pot of hot water with the lid on. It had nowhere to go, so it just bubbled over and before Steve even knew what he was doing, he’d put his fist through the drywall.

They were trying to destroy him. They wanted to rip him apart piece by piece and make him suffer. As if Bucky hadn’t already suffered enough. Everyone was trying to make him pay for something he never would have done if only he’d been in his right mind. If he hadn’t been tortured and brainwashed and operated on- Steve wanted to kill something. It was a feeling he rarely experienced, but not altogether unfamiliar. He’d felt it twice before in his whole life. The first time was the day after his mother’s funeral and he’d gone out and found the biggest, meanest looking guy he could and picked a fight with him. The second time was after Bucky fell and Steve had stormed the Hydra base, running almost purely on rage. It was an awful, queasy feeling and Steve hated it. But damn him to hell if he let anyone try to drag Bucky through a shit show like that.

Bucky had never deserved any of this. Things were never meant to turn out this way. Bucky should have fallen in love with a beautiful dame. He should have gotten his education from a good college like NYU or something like that so he’d get a good job and never have to work himself to the brink of collapse on the docks again. Maybe he could have moved to Park Slope or Bay Ridge, maybe even out to Westchester so he could have a big house with a picket fence and everything. Sure, maybe they wouldn’t have been free to be in love, but Steve would have been happy for him all the same. At least Bucky would have gotten to lead the life he deserved.

There was a banging on the other side of the wall Steve was standing by. “Hey! The hell you doin’ over there? Bangin’ around and shit? You’re knocking shit off my shelves!”

“Sorry!” Steve called back, wincing apologetically, though there was no one there to see him. He sighed and started dusting chunks of drywall off his knuckles. It was good he hadn’t put a hole clear through the wall. There was no way he could have explained his way around that.

Steve located a broom and a dustpan and began to clean up the small pile of rubble he’d made, thinking all the while about Camila Romero’s speech.

He wanted to hate her, even though none of this was her fault. Camila was just as much of a victim as anyone who’d lost a loved one in the D.C. Massacre or the Causeway Attack. However, she’d attacked Bucky, and that was unforgivable. Even so, he couldn’t quite manage to make it all the way to hate. If their positions had been reversed, Steve knew he’d be doing exactly the same thing that she was. It was lucky his mother had died of TB, because if it had been a person that killed her Steve would have hunted them down and made them suffer. To Camila, Bucky was one of the people that had conspired to kill her mother. Steve certainly couldn’t blame her for feeling the way she did. And, most of what she’d said was true. The government had no right to sell off the Triskelion, and every single one of those Hydra bastards had to face retribution.

But Bucky wasn’t Hydra. He was the world’s longest serving prisoner of war. More of a victim of Hydra than anyone that had lost a loved one or been killed because Bucky’s fate had been far worse than death. Bucky’s humanity had been systematically stripped away until there was almost nothing left.

Steve would not let Bucky pay for Hydra’s crimes. He’d do whatever was necessary to make sure that never happened.

***

Bucky was still in the bathroom. Two hours had passed now and he still hadn’t come out. Steve was starting to get worried. What could Bucky possibly be doing in there that took so long? His mind just kept circling back to the worst case scenario, which was that Bucky was dead in there. That Bucky had found a razor and cut himself open, and Steve had been none the wiser in the living room watching TV.

It was a ridiculous notion, and Steve knew it. But what if?

Back in 1934, the Barnes family had gone on a trip to Coney Island and left Steve to look after the twins, Barbara and Judith. They were only four, so Steve had been absolutely terrified that he’d do something wrong and accidentally kill Bucky’s baby sisters. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d gone into the nursery after he’d put them down to check that they were still breathing. (It had been the most stressful two bucks Steve had ever earned.) Steve felt almost the exact same way now- anxious and silly, but scared nonetheless.

Finally Steve couldn’t take it anymore, so he knocked on the door of the bathroom. There was no response. Immediately, Steve went into panic mode and pushed the door open and found Bucky asleep, head propped up on the porcelain rim of the tub, water lapping at his chest as it rose and fell steadily. An overwhelming sense of relief flooded Steve and he let out a long sigh.

Suddenly, Bucky was awake and sitting up in the tub, looking panicked and defensive. Steve silently cursed himself and raised his hands so Bucky could see them, taking a step back to give Bucky space.

“I’m sorry!” Steve exclaimed. “I was worried about you. You’ve been in here a long time. I just wanted to see that you were okay.”

The soldier ran his eyes over Steve, tension slowly leaking out of his body. After a moment Bucky nodded and a slightly amused smile crept across his plump lips. “Acknowledged,” Bucky said before leaning backing against the porcelain siding of the tub.

Steve wasn’t quite sure what to make of that.

He supposed he should give Bucky his privacy, but, just as he was about to turn around and leave, he glanced down and actually looked at Bucky’s body for the first time since 1945.

This body was completely different from the one he recalled. First of all, Bucky was thin. Disturbingly so. He'd lost weight while he'd been in the army, but never to this degree. His ribs stood out like the ribs of a washboard, his stomach somewhat caved in. Each and every one of his bones, from his shoulder to his hipbones, were distinctly prominent. Bucky looked like he was starving. Then there were the scars. They were everywhere, but all of them had faded to a ghostly pale white. If it hadn’t been for the harsh florescent bathroom lights they would have been practically invisible. Steve had to chalk that up to the version of the serum that Hydra had given him. Like Steve, it had increased his healing factor, but not to the point where all the evidence of violence was erased. The only scars that were truly noticeable were the ones on his shoulder, where flesh and bone melded with metal. Steve wondered nauseously why those had never managed to heal like the others.

Bucky was watching him intently, grey-blue eyes taking in all of Steve’s micro-expressions while Steve reacted to Bucky’s body. Steve knew that Bucky could see the horror and pain on his face, but he couldn’t manage to hide it.

Bucky’s body had become a roadmap of violence and abuse. Just thinking about where all the faint scars had come from made Steve feel sick.

“Horrible, isn’t it?” Bucky asked, eyes fixed unwaveringly on Steve’s face.

Forcing his eyes back onto Bucky’s face, he tried to muster up the courage to speak, but Steve was afraid he might fall apart right there.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky sighed.

“What the fuck are you sorry for?” Steve asked, his voice coming out surprising forceful when just a moment ago he was scared he’d burst into tears. Suddenly Camila Romero’s words were crowding in on him, along with all the words of hate that Steve had heard over the past year. And Steve just couldn’t take it anymore - all of the scapegoating and blame, the horrors of Hydra, the lies of S.H.I.E.L.D.. Everything he had endured seemed to collide into him all at once. “You didn’t do a damn thing, Bucky! Not a damn thing! Don’t you dare apologize for what those sons of bitches did to you! None of it was your fault! None of it!”

Bucky just stared at him for a very long moment while Steve stood there, heart bleeding like an open wound. He suddenly felt very small again, like he was still only ninety pounds and his spine was still twisted from his scoliosis. This was all too familiar. It was just like the stare off they had after every single one of Steve’s fights where he bit off more than he could chew - Bucky staring at him levely while Steve went redfaced and trembled in rage.

Finally Bucky broke eye contact, looking down and lifting his flesh hand out of the water. It was wrinkled and pruned from the long time he’d spent in the bath. He stared at it intensely, flexing his fingers a bit. “I should look like this now,” Bucky murmured. “I should be wrinkled.” Bucky looked over at Steve. “We both should be.”

The abrupt subject change caught Steve off guard and he unclenched his fists, trying to follow Bucky’s train of thought. “I know,” Steve murmured, not sure what else he was supposed to say.

“Sometimes, I wish I did,” Bucky informed him. “But mostly I don’t think about it. What I look like, I mean. It was never important. With Hydra. At least not for me.” Bucky looked down at his hand again. “I forget that you care. What I look like.”

Immediately, Steve shook his head. “I don’t.” He paused and considered his words. “I suppose in a way I do… I care that you’re healthy. You don’t look healthy right now.”

Bucky looked amused again. “Whatever you say, Stevie.”

 _Stevie_. That name sent tremors up Steve’s spine. Bucky was the only one who called him that, and hearing it now actually caused a physical response. Steve couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. 

 “Been a long time since you called me that,” Steve said softly. Bucky looked up, startled, and cocked his head to the side in question. “That name. Stevie. It was your special name for me. Nobody else called me that, not even my ma. Her special name for me was, angel. Only she said it in Irish.”

“Aingeal,” Bucky whispered, his brow furrowed in confusion and almost consternation. Like he had no idea where the word he’d just said had come from.

“That’s right,” Steve replied, his heart fluttering excitedly in his chest. “My ma was from Ireland. So was my da, but I never met him. Died in the Great War before I was even born.”

“I read that in a book,” Bucky stated. His face was almost blank, but his eyes were bright and glimmering. He looked almost proud of his knowledge- like he’d managed to get the jump on Steve for already knowing that fact.

Steve put the toilet seat down and took a seat on it. “Oh yeah? What book?” Steve asked, his eyebrows raised a little challengingly.

“ _Captain America: Separating the Man from the Myth_.”

Nodding thoughtfully, Steve couldn’t help but doubt the truth of that title. Steve Rogers; Captain America. It was all the same to the historians. But, for Steve, Captain America was more of an ideal than anything else- myth by its very nature. Steve just happened to be the guy who wore the suit and carried the shield. “Bet that book didn’t tell you any of the important stuff.”

“It told me about how you transformed the war effort both on the homefront and abroad-”

Steve shook his head, cutting Bucky off. The other man sounded almost like he was reciting that from memory. Like a kid in a history class would. That just wouldn’t stand. “That’s not the important stuff.” Bucky just raised his eyebrows at Steve, waiting for him to go on. “The important stuff is things like… When you made me ride the Cyclone at Coney Island. And as soon as I got off I threw up all over myself… I’d already had two corn dogs and cotton candy.  What a waste of fifty cents.” It had been one of Steve’s more embarrassing moments when he was a kid, and Bucky had never let him live it down. Right up until the day he died.

Bucky was silent for a long moment before sitting up straight in the tub, his eyes round and wide as he stared at Steve. Suddenly he was grinning like a fool. Then he was laughing. It was probably the most beautiful sound Steve had ever heard.  

“You remember?” Steve asked, smiling just as bright and dopily as he could.

“I remember,” Bucky assured, laughter fading though a smile still danced on his soft lips. His eyes ran over Steve’s frame and he shook his head a bit. “You were so small,” Bucky whispered, reaching out and brushing his flesh fingertips over Steve’s forearm. A shiver ran through Steve in response to the touch and he felt his face heat up. God, he shouldn’t be reacting this way. Finally, the silence between the two of them had been broken. Sex should be the farthest thing from his mind, but his body had always reacted to Bucky like this as far back as he could remember. Maybe he couldn’t expect it to react any differently.

“You’re red,” Bucky informed him.

“I know,” Steve replied, flushing an even deeper shade.

There was a brief pause.

“I like when you’re red,” Bucky whispered.

Steve smiled and looked over at Bucky, whose brow was drawn up in confusion like it had been when he recalled the Gaelic for angel. “I remember.”

***

_“Goddamn, Stevie, you’ve got such a pretty cock. So hard for me. I’m such a lucky fella. God must really love me.”_

_Steve groaned, a bright pink blush spreading across his face and down his neck and he buried his face in his palms. Soon enough, though, Bucky was pulling his hands away from his face, leaving Steve to stare up at Bucky and his ridiculously charming smirk. But Steve, stubborn as he was, did his level best to glare at Bucky, which just made the other man grin more._

_“Can you not talk about the Good Lord while we’re in bed?” Steve huffed. “I really don’t want Him to smite us down for all the sinnin’ we’re ‘bout to do.”_

_Bucky just laughed and kissed Steve, playful and a little rough, sucking on Steve’s bottom lip in a way that never failed to drive Steve crazy. Hooking his slender leg around Bucky’s hip, he rocked up against Bucky, revelling in the intoxicating feel of skin on skin contact, their dicks brushing against each other._

_Hot breath was exhaled against his lips as Bucky grunted, lips going still for a moment. Then he popped his head up and gazed down at Steve tenderly. “Don’t know how I got so lucky.”_

_Smiling self-consciously, Steve gave Bucky’s head a little shove, even as his blush spread down his neck to his chest. “Shut up,” Steve grumbled affectionately._

_The corner of Bucky’s lip quirked up into a smile, but his attention was now on Steve’s chest. “Look at that pretty pink,” Bucky breathed. He dipped his head down and began to press a series of wet kisses along the hot skin of Steve’s chest then up his neck. “I just love the way you blush, doll. All over your whole body like it does.”_

_That, of course, only made Steve’s blush deepen and he just heaved a long-suffering sigh, as if he wasn’t loving how Bucky’s lips felt on the sensitive skin of his throat. Chuckling, Bucky raised his head up so he could look at Steve again. “Could ya stop actin’ like a drama queen with all your melodramatic sighs?”_

_Steve laughed, grabbing Bucky by the base of his neck and pulling him in for a kiss. When he broke the kiss he raised his eyebrows at Bucky. “How ‘bout you stop tryin’ to make me blush and get down to business?_

_Bucky flashed Steve his signature smirk and gave him a salute before slipping down between Steve’s legs._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure when the next update will be. Hopefully much sooner than this one since I do have an idea of what I'd like to be in the next chapter. Bear with me guys. Writing is hard. 
> 
> Please comment. I live and breathe your praise; I learn and grow from your criticism.
> 
> Pester me on tumblr if you want! I'm suddenly-sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hopefully the cliffhanger is enough to keep your interest. The next update will be in one week.
> 
> Please comment. I live and breathe your praise, and I learn and grow from your criticism. 
> 
> Pester me on tumblr if you want! I'm suddenly-sherlock


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